A  TALE  OF 

TWENTY=  FIVE 
HOURS 


Me  of  <£u)cntn~Fn)c  (Jours 


JBv?  36ranfcer  /IDattbews. 


THE  LAST  MEETING:  A  STORY. 

A  SECRET   OF  THE  SEA,  AND  OTHER 
STORIES. 

A  FAMILY  TREE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

WITH    MY   FRIENDS:    TALES  TOLD  IN 
PARTNERSHIP. 

IN     THE     VESTIBULE  LIMITED:    A 
STORY. 


JUDGE     LYNCH:    A    ROMANCE  OF  THE 
CALIFORNIA  VINEYARDS. 

GERALD  FFRENCH'S  FRIENDS. 


£alc  of  StocntQ-fiuc  (jours 


BY 

BRANDER    MATTHEWS 

AND 

GEORGE    H.   JESSOP 


NEW   YORK 

D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 
1892 


Ps 


T 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 
BY   D.    APPLETON  AND   COMPANY. 


PRINTED  AT  THE 
APPLETON  PRESS,  U.  S.  A. 


prefatory  1Rote. 


In  a  different  form  and  under  another 
title  this  story  was  published  four  orfivz 
years  ago  in  an  ^American  magazine  and 
also  as  one  -volume  of  a  ^British  series. 
Carefully  revised  by  its  authors,  it  now 
appears  for  the  first  time  in  its  proper 

proportions. 

<B.  ZM. 

G.  H.  f. 


Contents  of  tbe  Ubirtecn  Cbapters. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — MR.     PAUL   STUYVESANT'S    SITTING- 
ROOM,    i 

II. — MR.   PAUL  STUYVESANT    AT    BREAK 
FAST,    ......      10 

III. — MR.  PAUL   STUYVESANT  RECEIVES  A 

VISIT, 21 

IV. — MR.      PAUL     STUYVESANT     PAYS    A 

VISIT, 37 

V. — MR.  PAUL  STUYVESANT  GOES  DOWN 
TOWN,  53 

VI. — MR.    PAUL    STUYVESANT    CALLS    ON 

M.  ZALINSKI,        .         .         .         .71 

VII. — MR.    PAUL  STUYVESANT   PUTS    Two 

AND  Two  TOGETHER,  .         .         .99 

VIII. — MR.     PAUL     STUYVESANT     INVADES 

"  THE  RUBENS,"  .         .         -113 

-IX. — MR.    PAUL    STUYVESANT    MAKES    A 

DISCOVERY,  .         .         .         .126 


vi    Contents  of  tbe  Cbirteen  Chapters. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

X. — MR.  PAUL  STUYVESANT  is  LATE  FOR 

AN  APPOINTMENT,         .        .         -139 

XI. — MR.    PAUL    STUYVESANT    PASSES  A 

DISTURBED  NIGHT,       .         .        .151 

XII. — MR.    PAUL  STUYVESANT  SPEAKS  His 

MIND, 159 

XIII. — MR.  PAUL  STUYVESANT  READS  THE 

"  GOTHAM  GAZETTE,"    .    .170 


H  £ale  of  GwentHfoe  Ibours, 


CHAPTER    I. 

MR.  PAUL  STUYVESANT'S  SITTING-ROOM. 

>R.  PAUL  STUYVESANT'S 
bachelor  apartment  was  on 
the  seventh  floor  of  a  tall 
building  overlooking  a  broad 
square  almost  in  the  centre  of  New 
York.  Years  ago  the  broad  square  had 
been  named  in  honor  of  an  American 
president;  and  the  tall  building,  only 
recently  remodelled,  now  recalled  the 
title  of  an  English  duke.  Its  lower 
floor,  level  with  the  street,  was  a  single 
huge  store,  wherein  one  of  the  chief 
jewellers  of  the  world  vended  his  glit 
tering  wares.  Most  of  the  rooms  on  the 
second  floor  were  leased  by  a  sporting 
club,  composed  of  fast  and  fashionable 


B  Cale  of  Cwentgsffte  Ibouvs. 

young  men,  many  of  whom,  having  taken 
to  horses,  were  making  ready  to  go  to  the 
dogs.  The  upper  floors  were  devoted  to 
apartments  for  bachelors;  and  into  these, 
as  into  the  monastery  on  Mount  Athos, 
no  women  were  allowed  to  enter  save 
when  one  of  the  inhabitants  asked  a  mar 
ried  sister  to  matronize  a  flock  of  girls 
who  came  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  osten 
sibly,  and  in  reality  to  investigate  the 
bachelor's  den. 

From  the  seventh  floor  the  outlook  was 
wider  than  it  was  below.  Paul  Stuy- 
vesant  knew  what  he  was  about  when  he 
took  rooms  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
he  had  never  regretted  his  selection. 
What  he  sought  especially  was  quiet; 
and  this  he  had  found.  Indeed,  he  had 
found  more — a  certain  faculty  of  ab 
stracting  himself  from  the  busy  life  of 
the  city  beneath  him — a  power,  as  it 
were,  of  cutting  himself  off  from  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

This  morning  there  was  neither  dust 
nor  noise.  Almost  the  first  snow-storm 
of  the  winter  had  come  and  gone  during 
the  night.  A  white  b'anket  covered  the 


a  Sale  of  Cwentg=five  Ibours.        3 

cornices  of  the  building  across  the  way, 
and  the  cross-pieces  of  the  giant  tele 
graph-poles  were  encrusted  with  spark 
ling  crystals.  The  thin  layer  of  snow 
clogged  the  car-tracks  on  the  street  far 
below,  and  deadened  the  sound  of  the 
horses'  feet.  The  roar  of  the  traffic  of 
the  great  city  arose  muffled;  and  even 
the  sharp  note  of  the  car-bells,  which 
came  up  clearly  enough  now  and  again, 
seemed  farther  off  than  before.  Al 
though  it  was  late  on  Friday  morning, 
there  was  a  hush  almost  as  though  it 
were  Sunday.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to 
this  unusual  calm  that  Stuyvesant  was 
oversleeping  himself. 

His  apartment  consisted  of  a  sitting- 
room,  a  bedroom,  a  bath-room,  a  tiny 
hall,  and  a  closet  or  two.  The  large 
square  sitting-room  had  four  windows, 
two  looking  out  to  the  east  and  two  fac 
ing  the  south.  It  was  a  bright  and 
cheerful  place,  generally;  and  now,  as 
the  slight  snow-storm  slowly  ceased,  and 
the  sun  gained  power  to  force  its  rays 
through  the  dense  gray  clouds,  this  room 
had  a  very  pleasant  aspect.  It  was  such 


4        B  Gale  of  Cwentgsfive  Tbours. 

a  room  as  a  man  might  be  glad  to  enter 
and  sorry  to  leave. 

When  the  sun  had  at  last  turned  itself 
full  on  and  flooded  the  place  with  its 
brightness,  a  boldly  painted  portrait 
which  hung  on  the  western  wall  next  to 
the  entrance-door  glowed  with  life,  and 
seemed  ready  to  start  from  its  frame. 
This  picture  was  singularly  strong  in 
color,  and  it  had  not  a  little  of  the  mel 
low  tone  and  golden  richness  which  lend 
so  great  a  charm  to  the  paintings  of  the 
great  Venetians.  It  was  the  portrait  of 
a  handsome  man  of  about  thirty  or  thirty- 
two  years  of  age.  He  was  tall  and  dark; 
his  countenance  was  aquiline;  his  eyes 
had  a  penetrating  glance  as  they  fol 
lowed  a  visitor  about  the  room  inquisi 
tively.  To  these  eyes,  indeed,  the  visi 
tor  involuntarily  recurred;  and  he  could 
find  in  them  a  look  of  curiosity — a  qual 
ity  most  precious,  and  objectionable  only 
when  misapplied  to  the  pettinesses  of  ex 
istence.  The  impression  made  by  the 
picture  varied,  of  course,  with  the  char 
acter  of  those  who  might  look  at  it. 
Most  people  were  pleased  with  it;  most 


B  Gale  of  awentE=:ff\>e  t)our0. 


people,  if  closely  cross-questioned,  could 
have  been  made  to  confess  that  it  looked 
as  though  the  man  who  had  sat  for  it 
was  pleased  with  himself.  But  so  frank, 
manly,  and  engaging  was  this  man  as 
revealed  by  the  artist  that  most  people 
did  not  give  this  revelation  a  second 
thought.  The  picture  was  a  portrait  of 
the  owner  of  the  apartment,  painted  by 
Charley  Vaughn,  to  whose  sister,  Kath- 
erine,  Stuyvesant  was  engaged  to  be 
married. 

On  the  narrow  space  of  wall  between 
the  two  windows  opposite  the  picture 
was  a  tall  frame,  divided  longitudi 
nally  into  three  sections,  in  which  were 
diplomas.  One  bore  witness  that  the 
owner  of  this  department  was  a  Bach 
elor  of  Arts,  summa  cum  laudc,  and  this 
was  enriched  with  the  seal  of  Columbia 
College,  Novi  Eboraci.  The  second  tes 
tified  that  the  University  of  Gottingen 
had  conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  J.  U.  D. 
The  third  was  a  certificate  of  member 
ship  in  the  famous  fraternity  of  Alpha 
Omega,  the  secret  society  which  Stuy 
vesant  had  joined  in  college,  and  mem- 


6       a  ftale  of  GwentE'five  ibours. 

bers  of  which  he  had  met  all  over  the 
world  in  the  most  unexpected  places. 

Between  the  windows  on  the  southern 
side  was  a  panoply  of  arms,  or  at  least 
what  might  pass  for  such  at  first  sight. 
On  closer  inspection,  the  weapons  were 
seen  not  to  be  those  that  are  custom 
arily  arrayed  in  trophies.  Among  half 
a  dozen  other  unconventional  weapons 
were  a  cruel-looking  gimlet  knife  and  a 
roughly  wrought  bowie,  on  the  broad 
blade  of  which  could  still  be  seen  the 
cross-hatching  of  the  file  from  which  it 
had  been  made.  This  last  object  of  in 
terest  had  been  a  present  from  Charley 
Vaughn. 

Two  or  three  hickory  sticks  blazed  and 
crackled  in  the  fireplace  on  the  northern 
wall  of  the  room.  On  each  side  of  the 
broad  wooden  mantelpiece  were  book 
cases  packed  with  solid  tomes  as  high  as 
a  man  might  reach  while  standing  on  his 
feet.  Some  of  these  were  portly  law- 
books,  sedate  in  their  sheepskin  cover 
ings.  Some  were  books  of  reference 
in  German,  French,  and  English.  Some 
were  the  books  that  no  gentleman's  li- 


B  Cale  of  tXwentB*fivs  tbours.        7 

brary  should  be  without;  but  of  these 
there  were  only  a  few,  and  they  looked 
as  fresh  as  when  they  had  left  the  bind 
ery.  On  a  shelf  level  with  the  eye,  and 
within  easy  reach  of  the  right  hand  as 
the  owner  of  the  room  should  stand  be 
fore  the  fire,  there  was  a  row  of  books  of 
all  sorts  and  conditions.  Some  of  them 
had  been  handsomely  bound,  and  some 
of  them  were  still  in  the  frail  paper  cov 
ers  in  which  they  had  been  issued;  but 
all  bore  marks  of  repeated  readings. 
Chief  among  them  was  a  set  of  the  com 
plete  works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  the  vol 
ume  most  worn  was  that  containing  "  The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue"  and  "  The 
Gold  Bug."  Next  to  this  stood  a  paper- 
covered  copy  of  "The  Moonstone,"  by 
Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  and  an  English  rail 
way  edition  of  "  A  Confidential  Agent," 
by  Mr.  James  Payn.  Near  these  were 
"The  Leavenworth  Case,"  by  Miss  Anna 
Katharine  Green;  "His  Natural  Life," 
by  Mr.  Marcus  Clarke;  "The  Mark  of 
Cain,"  by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang;  and  "The 
New  Arabian  Nights,"  by  Mr.  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  The  "  Memoires  de 


B  Sale  ot  Cweiite=fiv>e  Hxwrs. 

Vidocq"  elbowed  half  a  dozen  tales  by 
Emile  Gaboriau  and  Fortune  du  Bois- 
gobey;  and  "  Les  Morts  Bizarres,"  of  M. 
Jean  Richepin,  brought  up  the  end  of  the 
line. 

A  broad  desk-table  was  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  Its  flat  surface  supported  a 
student-lamp,  and  also  a  large  photograph 
in  a  velvet  frame,  with  velvet  curtains 
drawn  over  the  portrait  closely,  so  that 
no  indiscreet  eye  might  recognize  the 
features  of  the  lady.  Bits  of  paper  of 
different  sizes,  each  of  them  having  a 
sentence  or  two  written  on  it  hastily, 
some  in  ink  and  some  in  pencil,  littered 
the  centre  of  the  desk.  It  might  fairly 
be  guessed  that  these  were  the  accumu 
lated  notes  intended  to  serve  in  the  com 
position  of  the  thick  manuscript,  the 
sheets  of  which  were  heaped  together  just 
under  the  student-lamp.  On  the  first 
page  of  this  manuscript  was  written  "  A 
History  of  Circumstantial  Evidence:  with 
an  Analysis  of  its  Fallacies.  By  Paul 
Stuyvesant,  J.U.D. ,  Adjunct  Professor 
of  the  Canon  Law  in  Columbia  College." 
Apparently  the  author  had  been  laboring 


B  Sale  of  awentE=fiv>e  f>ours.        9 

on  his  book  until  very  late  at  night,  and 
had  gone  to  bed  as  soon  as  he  had  done 
his  stent  of  work,  without  waiting  to 
gather  up  his  scattered  notes.  Perhaps 
in  this  delayed  labor  might  be  found  the 
reason  why  he  was  sleeping  so  late  this 
morning. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MR.  PAUL  STUYVESANT  AT  BREAKFAST. 

was  past  ten  o'clock  when 
Stuyvesant  came  out  of  his 
bedroom  into  the  parlor.  In 
the  strong  light  it  could  be 
seen  that  the  portrait  on  the  wall  behind 
him  was  a  striking  likeness,  although 
perhaps  a  certain  dreaminess  which  might 
lie  latent  in  the  original  had  been  accent 
uated  by  the  artist.  Rich  as  was  the  col 
oring  of  the  portrait,  it  was  not  warmer 
than  the  flush  which  arose  to  the  face  of 
the  man  as  he  stepped  to  the  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room  and  took  up  the  pho 
tograph-frame  which  stood  there.  He 
parted  the  velvet  curtains,  and  gazed  in 
tently  on  the  face  of  the  woman  they  had 
concealed.  It  was  a  pretty  face,  and  he 
looked  at  it  long  and  lovingly.  Then  he 
kissed  it  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  set  it 
back  on  the  table.  It  was  a  photograph 
of  Miss  Katharine  Vaughn. 


B  Sale  of  CwentE'five  t>ours.       n 


Although  he  was  a  college  professor, 
Paul  Stuyvesant  was  a  young  man  and  an 
ardent  lover.  Just  now  his  whole  thought 
was  of  his  future  bride,  and  how  he  might 
make  her  happiest.  It  was  because  he 
had  lingered  later  with  her  the  even 
ing  before  that  he  had  been  obliged  to 
work  on  until  far  into  the  night.  Fort 
unately,  the  fortnight's  vacation  for 
Christmas  and  New  Year  was  not  yet 
over.  It  was  Friday,  the  3d  of  January, 
and  he  had  no  lectures  to  deliver  until 
Monday.  The  day  was  his  own,  and  he 
might  do  with  it  as  he  pleased. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  one 
of  the  janitor's  assistants  brought  in  a 
tray  containing  Stuyvesant's  breakfast, 
which  was  the  only  meal  supplied  in  the 
apartment-house.  The  books  and  maga 
zines  which  littered  a  small  table  in  the 
corner  were  hastily  cleared  away,  and 
the  breakfast-tray  was  set  down.  The 
attendant  laid  a  letter  and  the  Gotham 
Gazette  of  that  morning  by  the  side  of  the 
tray,  and  left  the  room. 

Stuyvesant  took  his  seat  at  the  table; 
but  before  he  tasted  the  golden  Florida 


is      S  Gale  of  {rwent£=ffve  fjoure. 

orange,  with  which  he  always  broke  his 
fast,  he  took  up  the  letter.  It  was  from 
Charley  Vaughn : 

"  THE  RUBENS, 

"January  2(1. 

"  DEAR  POST  SCRIPT  :  Perhaps  yoti 
may  remember  that  you  promised  to  go 
with  me  Saturday  to  see  the  new  pictures. 
If  you  don't  recall  the  circumstance,  this 
will  serve  to  remind  you  of  it;  while  it 
informs  you  that  the  engagement  is  off! 
I  can't  meet  you,  because  I'm  to  meet  the 
Bishop  of  Tuxedo  to  talk  about  a  stained- 
glass  window  for  his  new  church.  You 
know  he  is  a  man  of  the  world — they  used 
to  call  him  the  Apostle  to  the  genteels — 
and  I  think  I  shall  suggest  Dives  and 
Lazarus  as  a  subject.  With  some  new 
ruby  glass  I  have  just  seen,  I  can  put 
Dives  into  a  red-hot  hell.  That's  a  job 
that  would  have  puzzled  Titian!  I  rob 
you,  Paul  (of  an  appointment)  to  pay 
Saint  Peter — that's  the  name  of  the  new 
church. 

"  So  long, 

"  CHARI.EV. 


a  (Tale  of  dvventg=five  l&ours.       13 

"P.S. — I've  been  trying  to  read  this 
and  it  seems  scarcely  legible.  I  see  I 
haven't  put  in  the  commas  and  things. 
Season  to  suit  yourself.  I  hold  that 
punctuation  is  the  thief  of  time. 

"C.V." 

Stuyvesant  read  this  brief  letter  with 
some  surprise.  He  did  not  understand 
the  reason  given  for  the  cancelling  of  the 
engagement.  He  glanced  again  over 
the  letter,  and  he  remarked  in  it  what 
seemed  to  him  like  forced  gayety.  The 
humor  struck  him  as  artificial.  It  seemed 
to  him  almost  as  though  the  note  were  the 
result  of  an  effort.  In  general,  Charley 
was  as  light-hearted  a  young  fellow  as 
could  be  found  in  all  New  York,  and  he 
had  a  flow  of  spirits  as  far  removed  as 
possible  from  any  suggestion  of  strain. 
And  yet  this  was  not  the  first  time  that 
Stuyvesant  had  seen  signs  of  a  certain 
constraint  in  Charley  Vaughn. 

Paul  laid  the  letter  on  one  side  and  be 
gan  his  breakfast.  As  he  poured  out  his 
coffee  he  remarked  that  the  tray  was  not 
quite  level ;  one  corner  was  higher  than 


u      B  Cale  of  Cvventgsfitfe  tt>ours. 


the  other;  and  beneath  it  he  found  a  thin 
little  book,  inside  of  which  was  a  bundle 
of  slips  of  paper.  In  clearing  off  the 
table  he  had  overlooked  this.  He  recog 
nized  it  at  once  as  the  pass-book  which 
he  had  sent  to  the  Metropolitan  National 
Bank  to  be  balanced,  and  which  he  must 
have  taken  out  of  his  pocket  the  night  be 
fore.  The  bundle  of  slips  was  a  collec 
tion  of  the  checks  which  he  had  drawn 
during  the  past  six  months. 

Only  half  a  year  before  had  Paul  Stuy- 
vesant  opened  his  first  bank-account,  de 
positing  the  check  for  the  salary  of  his 
professorship.  Old  as  he  was,  a  check 
book  was  still  a  novelty  to  him;  and  it 
was  with  a  boyish  pleasure  that  he  broke 
the  band  which  encircled  the  thin  bundle 
and  began  to  turn  over  the  cancelled 
checks.  Here  was  the  very  check  he  had 
drawn  to  pay  for  the  engagement-ring  he 
had  given  to  Katharine  Vaughn.  Not  a 
few  of  the  others  could  be  connected  with 
her  more  or  less  directly.  There  was 
another,  drawn  in  payment  of  the  little 
supper  after  the  theatre-party  which  he 
had  given  her,  and  which  Mrs.  Duncan 


B  Cale  of  GwentE=five  Ibours.      15 

had  kindly  matronized — the  supper  at 
which  Charley  had  flirted  so  funnily  with 
the  pretty  girl  from  Yonkers.  Yet  a 
third  was  to  the  order  of  a  florist;  and  as 
he  looked  at  it  there  arose  a  vision  of 
Katharine  Vaughn  as  she  stood  before 
him  at  the  ball,  radiantly  beautiful,  su 
premely  happy,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
the  bunch  of  roses  he  had  provided  for 
her. 

As  Stuyvesant  turned  this  check  over, 
he  took  up  the  one  beneath  it.  He  rec 
ognized  that  also,  and  he  knew  where  the 
money  had  gone.  The  check  was  to  the 
order  of  Charles  Vaughn  ;  and  it  had  been 
posted  to  him  only  a  fortnight  before,  to 
pay  Paul's  slight  losses  the  last  time  they 
had  played  poker.  He  had  been  unlucky 
that  evening,  and  he  had  not  yet  forgotten 
the  four  deuces  with  which  Charley  had 
beaten  his  ace-full.  He  smiled,  as  the 
recollection  of  a  good  game  of  poker 
seems  to  make  most  Americans  smile. 
As  he  turned  the  check  over  on  the  others, 
he  was  struck  by  the  indorsements.  Most 
of  the  checks  had  been  deposited  at  once 
by  the  payees.  This  alone  had  appar- 


16      a  Gale  of  £wentE*fh>e  1bour0. 


ently  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  almost 
as  though  it  were  a  bank-note.  There 
were  four  names  on  the  back  :  Charley 
had  given  it  to  M.  Zalinski,  who  had  in 
dorsed  it  to  the  order  of  James  Burt,  and 
he  in  turn  had  passed  it  along  to  Elipha- 
let  Duncan.  Now,  Stuyvesant  knew  Eli- 
phalet  Duncan  as  well  as  he  knew  Charley 
Vaughn.  That  a  check  which  he  had 
given  to  Charley  should  find  its  way  into 
the  hands  of  Eliphalet,  after  passing 
through  those  of  two  unknown  men  like 
M.  Zalinski  and  James  Burt,  struck  him 
as  peculiar.  M.  Zalinski  —  the  name 
seemed  somehow  familiar,  although  he 
could  not  place  it  at  once;  the  hand 
writing  was  stiff  and  foreign:  probably 
the  man  was  a  Polish  Jew.  The  signa 
ture  of  James  Burt  was  bold  and  irregu 
lar,  as  though  it  was  the  result  of  main 
strength  misapplied. 

Stuyvesant  turned  over  the  rest  of  his 
checks  carelessly  as  he  went  on  with  his 
breakfast.  Then  he  took  up  the  Gotham 
Gazette,  while  he  smoked  a  cigarette  with 
his  coffee.  The  newspaper  happened  to 
be  so  folded  that  the  eighth  page  was 


a  Gale  of  £wentE=fiv>e  Tbours.       17 

under  his  eye.  He  had  not  more  than 
glanced  down  the  first  column  before  he 
checked  the  cup  which  he  was  raising  to 
his  lips.  A  curt  paragraph  informed  the 
readers  of  the  Gotham  Gazette  that  the 
case  of  James  Burt,  charged  before  Police 
Justice  Van  Dam  with  having  burglars' 
tools  in  his  possession,  was  postponed 
until  the  following  Wednesday,  at  the 
request  of  his  lawyer,  Mr.  Eliphalet 
Duncan. 

Stuyvesant  laid  down  the  paper  and 
stared  straight  before  him  in  deep 
thought.  He  had  found,  apparently,  the 
connecting  link  between  two  of  the  four 
indorsements  on  his  check.  James  Burt 
had  paid  it  over  to  Eliphalet  Duncan  as 
a  retainer.  That  seemed  simple  enough. 
But  who  was  M.  Zalinski?  And  how 
came  Charley  Vaughn  to  be  paying  money 
to  a  man  who  had  dealings  with  a  burg 
lar?  These  questions  he  put  to  himself 
repeatedly,  and  he  found  no  answer. 
Charley  was  neither  eccentric  nor  fast; 
and  it  was  no  easy  task  to  account  for  his 
having  passed  Stuyvesant's  check  to  a 
man  who  had  passed  it  on  again  to  a 


is      a  £ale  of 


house-breaker.  The  combination  of  cir 
cumstances  was  singular,  certainly,  but 
probably  it  was  of  no  significance  what 
ever.  Charley  had  behaved  queerly  of 
late  in  more  ways  than  one,  it  was  true; 
but  no  doubt  he  could  explain  in  a  few 
words  this  curious  linking  of  his  name 
with  a  malefactor's.  Paul  said  to  him 
self  that  he  was  attaching  too  much  im 
portance  to  a  trifle,  and  that  a  perfectly 
innocent  explanation  would  be  forthcom 
ing  in  due  time.  Of  course,  if  Charley 
were  in  trouble  in  any  way,  Stuyvesant 
would  do  all  that  he  could  to  help  the 
boy  out.  Katharine  Vaughn  was  a  bond 
between  them,  all  the  stronger,  since  the 
girl  was  unusually  proud  and  fond  of  her 
clever,  light-hearted  brother.  Paul  was 
very  fond  of  Charley  for  his  own  sake 
also,  and  he  was  ready  to  go  great 
lengths,  if  he  could  relieve  the  young 
fellow  from  any  worry  which  might  be 
wearing  on  him. 

For  a  few  minutes  Paul  sat  silently 
thinking,  and  not  conscious  of  the  series 
of  concentric  smoke-rings  which  he  was 
blowing,  one  through  the  other  When 


21  Cale  of  CwentE=fh>e  Tbours.      19 

his  cigarette  burned  down  and  scorched 
his  fingers,  he  aroused  himself.  Light 
ing  a  second  cigarette,  he  took  up  the 
newspaper  again.  He  turned  it,  and  on 
the  first  page  he  found  this  despatch  from 
Paris,  set  forth  with  a  hydra-like  profu 
sion  of  "display  heads:" 

"  THE  EXTRAORDINARY  THEFT  OF  A 
PICTURE! 

"  The  art  world  of  Paris  was  thrown 
into  a  high  state  of  excitement  to-day  by 
a  rumor  that  the  great  painting  of  Mary 
Magdalen,  by  Titian,  had  been  stolen 
from  the  handsome  apartment  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Sargent,  the  well-known  Ameri 
can  millionaire  and  chief  owner  of  the 
Transcontinental  Telegraph  Company. 
This  is  the  great  picture  which  was  so 
romantically  recovered  two  years  ago, 
after  having  been  lost  to  sight  for  nearly 
two  centuries.  It  was  painted  in  Ferrara 
in  1520  for  Lucrezia  Borgia,  and  it  had 
been  lost  since  the  beginning  of  the  eigh 
teenth  century.  It  is  a  single  head, 
trea'ted  in  the  great  artist's  most  glorious 
manner.  Mr.  Sargent  has  been  away  in 


20       B  Cale  of  GwentB=five  Ibours. 

Russia  for  more  than  six  months,  leaving 
his  magnificently  decorated  apartment  in 
the  Avenue  de  1'Opera  locked  up.  When 
it  was  opened,  the  Mary  Magdalen  was 
gone.  It  had  been  cut  from  the  frame. 
The  police  do  not  know  when  the  robbery 
had  been  committed ;  but  they  say  they 
have  a  clew  to  the  thieves." 

Here  followed  a  brief  description  of 
the  scene  of  the  crime,  with  a  further  ac 
count  of  the  stolen  picture,  including  the 
dimensions  of  the  canvas. 

"Now,  that  is  really  very  curious  in 
deed,"  said  Stuyvesant  to  himself.  ''  This 
is  the  second  paragraph  in  to-day's  paper 
which  is  of  interest  to  Charley." 

Just  then  there  came  a  sharp  knock  at 
the  door. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MR.     PAUL    STUYVESANT    RECEIVES    A   VISIT. 

JTUYVESANT  looked  up  as  he 
cried,  "  Come  in!" 

The  door  opened,  and 
Charley  Vaughn  appeared. 
He  walked  straight  to  the  blazing  fire 
and  began  rubbing  his  hands. 

Charley  Vaughn  was  a  lively  little  fel 
low,  with  curly  blonde  hair  and  a  quizzi 
cal  face.  He  wore  a  pair  of  eye-glasses, 
behind  which  his  sharp  blue  eyes  were 
never  still. 

"Is  it  very  cold  out ?"  asked  Stuyve- 
sant. 

"It  isn't  the  cold  I  mind,"  Charley  re 
plied,  taking  a  cigarette  from  a  cup  of 
cloisonne  enamel  which  stood  on  the 
mantelpiece.  "It's  the  confounded  un 
certainty  of  the  thing.  I'm  in  Green 
land's  icy  mountains  one  clay  and  on 
India's  coral  strand  the  next.  In  the 


22      8  tTale  of  tr\v>entE=five  Hjours. 

course  of  a  week  Old  Probabilities  serves 
us  up  a  great  deal  of  weather  of  assorted 
sizes:  if  you  don't  see  what  you  want, 
ask  for  it." 

"If  you  want  a  match,  you  will  find  a 
box  on  the  book-case  behind  you,"  sug 
gested  Stuyvesant,  smiling. 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Charley 
gravely.  "  Let  me  beg  of  you  not  to 
rise.  I  can  help  myself.  I  should  hate 
to  put  you  to  any  inconvenience." 

He  lighted  his  cigarette,  and  then  took 
up  a  favorite  masculine  position  on  the 
hearth-rug,  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and 
his  feet  well  apart.  His  eyes  fell  on  the 
breakfast-tray. 

"You  got  my  letter,  I  see, "  he  said, 
watching  Stuyvesant  closely. 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul  dryly. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  for  a  few 
seconds.  Charley  kept  his  eyes  on  his 
host  until  Stuyvesant  happened  to  look 
up;  their  glances  met,  and  the  guest,  with 
a  little  nervous  laugh,  dropped  his  gaze  to 
the  floor. 

"I  came  in  to  explain  how  it  is," 
Charley  began,  in  a  hesitating  way,  in 


H  Cale  of  awentE=fi\>e  "fcours.      23 

marked  contrast  with  his  usual  glib 
speech. 

Stuyvesant  smoked  on  silently. 

"I  can  tell  you  how  it  is,"  pursued 
Charley.  "  I  like  the  Bishop  of  Tuxedo: 
he's  a  white  man,  for  all  he's  a  gospel- 
sharp.  And  so  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
mind  my  postponing  our  engagement  for 
to-morrow. " 

There  was  another  awkward  pause,  and 
then  Stuyvesant  said : 

•'  I  thought  you  hated  stained  glass 
with  a  holy  hatred?" 

"  I  do  hate  it,  of  course;  but — 

"  But  you  like  the  bishop  so  much  that 
you  are  willing  to  make  an  exception  in 
his  favor? " 

"Exactly,"  said  Charley,  quickly  seiz 
ing  at  the  explanation  obligingly  offered. 

"  Ah!  "  Stuyvesant  rejoined,  with  sig 
nificance. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  con 
temptible  'ah!  '  ?  "  cried  Charley  with  a 
show  of  indignation. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Stuyvesant, 
coolly — "  nothing  much.  Only  this,  in 
fact,  that  I  heard  you  say  last  week  that 


24      a  Gale  of  £wentg=fix>e  1bour0. 


you  would  as  soon  compose  music  spe 
cially  for  the  hand-organ  as  make  a  design 
for  stained  glass,  in  the  execution  of 
which  the  artist  was  wholly  at  the  mercy 
of  the  artisan." 

"Did  I  say  that?"  asked  Charley  pit 
ifully. 

"I  heard  you,"  was  the  uncompromis 
ing  reply. 

"Oh,  well,"  the  artist  responded  at 
last,  "  if  you  are  going  to  search  my  rec 
ord,  and  try  to  pile  up  petty  inconsist 
encies,  I  shall  not  say  another  word.  Of 
course,  there  isn't  anything  to  explain." 

Here  he  glanced  again  at  Stuyvesant 
sharply;  and  again  Stuyvesant  looked  up 
and  caught  his  eye. 

"Can  he  suspect  anything?"  thought 
Charley.  "  He  studies  my  face  as  though 
my  secret  were  written  there  in  black  and 
white." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  boy?" 
was  Paul's  mental  query.  "He  is  not 
straightforward  with  me  this  morning.  I 
wonder  what  he  has  on  his  mind  ?  " 

"You  lawyers  are  always  so  sharp," 
said  Charley,  at  last.  "  You  seem  to 


H  Gale  of  Gwent£»five  Ibours.      25 

think  you  have  the  whole  world  in  the 
witness-box.  By  the  way,  how  is  the  big 
book  getting  on?"  And  he  made  a  ges 
ture  toward  the  pile  of  manuscript  on  the 
table. 

Stuyvesant  saw  his  chance,  and  seized 
it  promptly. 

"It's  a  long  job,  of  course, "  he  said, 
"  and  I  have  hard  work  to  get  all  the  ma 
terial  I  need.  I  think  I  shall  go  down 
and  ask  Eliphalet  Duncan  if  he  has  some 
fresher  facts  for  me.  You  know  he  has 
been  engaged  in  several  important  crim 
inal  cases." 

"Has  he?"  asked  Charley,  with  indif 
ference. 

"I  see  by  the  paper  this  morning," 
Stuyvesant  went  on,  "that  he  is  to  defend 
an  alleged  burglar — James  Burt." 

He  never  took  his  eyes  from  Vaughn's 
face,  but  the  face  made  no  sign. 

"I  believe,"  continued  Stuyvesant, 
"that  this  Burt  is  a  pal  of  Zalinski's. " 

"Of  Mike  Zalinski's?"  Charley  in 
quired  eagerly. 

"'That  is  the  man's  name,  probably," 
Paul  answered.  "  Do  you  know  him  ? ' 


26      B  Cale  of  Cwentg=fiv>e  fjours. 

"I've  met  him,"  said  Charley. 

Stuyvesant  did  not  like  to  push  the 
matter  farther.  He  felt  that  it  was  im 
possible  for  him  to  ask  Charley  what  his 
connection  with  Zalinski  might  be. 
There  was  something  in  his  young  friend's 
manner  which  he  had  never  seen  there  be 
fore.  It  was  a  vague  restlessness — a  sort 
of  subdued  feverishness. 

"  Don't  you  feel  well,  Charley?"  Paul 
asked  suddenly. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  feel  well  ?  "  he  replied 
indignantly. 

"  I  thought  you  looked  worn  or  wor 
ried,"  Stuyvesant  returned.  "  That's  why 
I  asked  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  Charley  rejoined. 
"I'm  as  chubby  as  a  cherub,  and  as 
chipper  as  a  chipmunk." 

"  If   I   can   do   anything  for   you — 
began  Stuyvesant. 

"But  you  can't,"  interrupted  Charley 
hastily.  "Can  you  minister  to  a  mind 
diseased?  I  mean,  can't  you  be  satisfied 
until  I  pack  myself  up  in  paper-shavings, 
as  if  I  were  imported  glass-ware — this 
side  up,  with  care?"  And,  as  though 


H  Cale  of  £wentB*five  1bour0.      27 


anxious  to  change  the  subject,  he  went 
over  to  his  friend's  portrait. 

"That's  not  bad,  you  know,  though  I 
say  it  as  shouldn't,"  he  remarked,  as  he 
drew  off  and  examined  the  picture  crit 
ically.  "I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  get 
the  values  better  than  I  did  then.  The 
color's  pretty  harsh  in  some  places, 
though.  But  the  composition  isn't  so 
queer,after  all.  You  see,  Paul,  you  stoop, 
and  one  of  your  shoulders  is  higher  than 
the  other:  most  people  wouldn't  notice 
it,  perhaps." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  subject. 

"You  needn't  thank  me,"  replied  the 
painter;  "I  saw  it  plainly  enough,  and 
that's  why  I  posed  you  as  I  did.  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  made  Art  conceal  the  de 
fects  of  Nature." 

"Go  on,"  Stuyvesant  laughed,  "go  on! 
Don't  mind  my  feelings." 

"I  don't,"  said  Vaughn.  "When  1 
stand  before  a  portrait  I  know  no  mercy  ; 
I  forget  all  friendship;  I  ignore  all  the 
conventions  of  civilization.  That  is  why 
I  dd  not  hesitate  to  tell  you  that  one  side 
of  your  head  is  all  out  of  drawing." 
3 


28      a  Cale  of  Gwent£=ffve  fbours. 

"  In  your  picture?  " 

"  On  your  body." 

"  Now,  Charley "  began  Stuyve- 

sant,  half  laughing  and  half  piqued. 

"  It  is  the  frozen  verity,"  the  artist  in 
sisted.  "You  have  no  right  to  hold  me 
responsible  for  the  blunders  of  Nature. 
The  most  I  could  do  was  to  try  and  in 
vent  a  scheme  of  color  that  would  distract 
attention  from  the  defects  of  the  subject; 
and  I  think  I  have  succeeded  fairly  well 
in  that." 

"Am  I  to  understand  that,  if  you  had 
done  me  exact  justice,  I  should  appear  on 
the  canvas  deformed?" 

"No, "replied  Charley  gravely;  "no, 
it  is  not  as  bad  as  that.  In  the  main, 
you  are  not  much  amiss " 

"A  thousand  thanks " 

"But  one  side  of  your  head  is  out  of 
drawing;  that  I  have  said,  and  that  I 
stick  to!  But  I  doubt  if  one  man  in  a 
million,  or  even  if  one  artist  i-n  ten,  would 
find  it  out.  You  see  that  there  is  a  glow 
to  the  picture,  a  richness  and  a  mellow 
ness  like  those  of  the  best  portraits  of  the 
great  Venetians.  And  that  is  the  result 


B  Gale  of  Cwent£sfiv?e  Ibours.      29 

of  using  the  marvellous  medium  I  discov 
ered  after  I  once  had  a  chance  to  restore 
a  Sasso-Ferrato.  I  stretch  my  canvas 
myself,  and  I  prime  it  myself,  as  the 
old  masters  used  to  do.  Then  I  lay 
on  the  color  with  a  medium  of  my  own 
compounding.  When  I  retire  from  busi 
ness  I  shall  reveal  the  secret  of  that 
medium,  and  the  whole  world  of  pain 
ters  will  rise  up  and  call  me  blessed. 
With  that  medium  and  a  little  touch  of  a 
varnish  I  know,  I  can  make  a  cow-boy  as 
romantic  as  a  bull-fighter.  I  can  shine 
up  a  picture  of  mine  until  it  glows  almost 
like  a  Titian." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Gotham  Gazette  this 
morning?"  asked  Stuyvesant  suddenly. 

"  No.      Why  ?  " 

"There's  a  cable  despatch  in  it  which 
will  interest  you." 

"  Has  the  Queen  at  last  discovered  my 
genius?  Has  she  cabled  to  the  President 
requesting  him  to  engage  me  to  paint  her 
portrait?"  asked  the  artist. 

"  The  news  does  not  refer  to  you  di 
rectly.  No  doubt  her  majesty  will  send 
for  you  some  day,  and  perhaps  you  will 


30      B  Gale  of  awents«=five  Ibours. 

tell  her  that  her  royal  head  is  out  of 
drawing  too." 

"  I  see  that  my  truthful  criticism  of 
your  anatomical  imperfections  still  ran 
kles  in  your  shallow  soul.  Go  on  with 
the  news.  Of  course,  if  it  does  not  refer 
to  me  personally  by  name,  I  cannot  think 
it  important." 

"The  Mary  Magdalen  of  Titian  is 
stolen,"  Stuyvesant  said. 

"  They  have  found  that  out  at  last,  have 
they?"  was  the  artist's  reply. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  asked 
Stuyvesant  surprised.  "How  did  you 
know  that  it  had  been  taken?" 

Charley  Vaughn  looked  up,  as  though 
in  wonder  at  the  other's  vehemence. 

"  I  never  supposed  he  came  by  it  hon 
estly,"  he  answered  after  a  pause. 

"  He  ?  "  returned  Paul.      "  Who  ?  " 

"  The  man  in  whose  possession  I  found 
it  first;  in  fact,  I  used  to  regret  that  I 
didn't  take  it  and  keep  it  for  myself  when 
I  first  saw  it,"  Charley  replied,  and  his 
voice  became  more  enthusiastic  as  he 
continued:  "You  don't  know  what  a 
marvel  it  is.  Titian  never  did  anything 


a  Cale  of  Cwentgsfive  fjours.      31 

else  as  good.  The  drawing  is  masterly, 
and  the  coloring  is  incomparable.  I 
have  never  seen  a  picture  I  would  rather 
steal." 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  stealing  pict 
ures?"  asked  Stuyvesant  grimly. 

"No,"  Vaughn  answered  as  gravely; 
"  but  I  would  make  an  exception  in  favor 
of  this  one."  After  a  momentary  pause, 
he  added:  "  Let  me  see  the  paper." 

Stuyvesant  passed  it  to  him,  and  he 
read  the  paragraph  slowly. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  the  news 
paper  down  again  and  lighted  a  fresh  cig 
arette.  "  This  time  there  is  no  doubt 
that  somebody  has  carried  it  off.  The 
man,  whoever  he  is,  has  a  treasure,  but  it 
is  a  treasure  he  will  have  to  keep  to  him 
self;  he  cannot  show  it  to  his  friends; 
he  cannot  boast  of  it;  he  cannot  sell  it; 
he  cannot  let  any  one  even  suspect  that  he 
has  it  in  his  possession.  I  can  under 
stand  how  he  feels,  poor  fellow!  " 

"Are  you  pitying  the  thief?"  asked 
Stuyvesant. 

"You  are  not  an  artist,  and  you  have 
never  seen  that  picture,  or  you  couldn't 


32      8  Gale  of  tIwentg*fiY>e  f>ours. 

help  pitying  a  man  who  had  in  his  posses 
sion  a  gem  of  the  first  water,  which  he 
dare  not  display,  and  which  he  can  enjoy 
only  by  stealth." 

"When  did  you  see  it  last?"  inquired 
Stuyvesant. 

"I'd  sooner  tell  you  when  I  saw  it 
first,"  replied  Charley,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation.  "You  know  I  am  almost  the 
rediscoverer  of  that  picture.  I  saw  it  in 
the  window  of  a  brocanteur,  near  the 
Chateau  d'Eau,  in  Paris,  one  day  about 
four  years  ago.  It  was  dusty  and  dirty, 
and  the  frame  was  almost  broken  to  bits; 
but  when  my  eye  lighted  on  it  I  was  fas 
cinated.  I  went  in  and  asked  the  man 
what  he  wanted  for  it.  He  said  he  had 
just  given  the  refusal  of  it  to  a  gentleman 
who  was  to  return  at  three  o'clock.  If 
he  didn't  take  it  I  could  have  it  for  a 
thousand  francs.  I  examined  the  picture 
carefully,  and  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  a 
genuine  Titian,  and  one  of  his  best.  I 
tried  to  beat  the  man  down,  of  course, 
and  told  him  it  was  impious  to  ask  a 
thousand  francs  for  an  old  crust  like  that. 
But  he  retorted  that  I  needn't  buy  it  if  I 


B  (Talc  of  CwentBsfive  t>our0.      33 


didn't  like  it,  and  that,  even  if  I  did  like 
it,  the  other  gentleman  had  the  refusal. 
As  I  looked  at  the  picture,  the  longing 
for  it  grew  on  me.  In  my  head  I  went 
over  a  list  of  the  people  I  could  ask  to 
lend  me  a  thousand  francs.  Of  course,  I 
hadn't  any  money  on  hand.  It  was  near 
the  end  of  the  month,  and  I  was  living 
on  three  francs  a  day,  and  there  was  a 
month's  rent  due.  At  last  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would  take  the  picture  and 
the  seller  with  me  in  a  cab  to  the  bank 
er's,  and  I  would  vouch  for  the  value  of 
the  picture,  and  ask  them  to  lend  me  the 
money  to  buy  it.  I  didn't  dare  go  away, 
for  fear  I  should  lose  the  chance.  It  was 
not  twelve  when  I  caught  sight  of  it,  and 
I  waited  there  until  three.  Five  minutes 
before  the  time  expired,  a  gentleman 
came  into  the  shop,  and  my  heart  dropped 
into  my  boots,  P.  D.  Q.  I  knew  him  by 
sight:  he  was  the  manager  of  the  London 
branch  of  a  great  firm  of  French  picture- 
dealers.  As  soon  as  I  saw  him,  I  knew 
that  my  chance  was  clean  gone.  He  paid 
the  thousand  francs,  and  he  had  the  pict 
ure  put  into  his  carriage.  Just  as  lie 


34      H  Gale  of  awentgsffve  l>ours. 


\va.s  driving  off,  I  mustered  up  courage  to 
ask  what  he  would  take  for  his  bargain. 
I  spoke  French,  but  my  tongue  betrayed 
me,  and  he  answered  in  English  that  he 
expected  that  his  morning's  work  would 
pay  a  profit  of  ten  thousand  pounds  —  only 
this,  and  nothing  more." 

"Ten  thousand  pounds?"  repeated 
Stuyvesant.  "  Is  this  Mary  Magdalen 
worth  anything  like  that?" 

"  They  sold  it  to  Sam  Sargent  for  three 
hundred  thousand  francs,"  replied  the 
artist  indignantly.  "That's  the  sort  of 
thing  that  makes  Communists.  I  wanted 
that  picture,  and  I  could  have  appreciated 
it.  Sargent  got  it,  and  he  doesn't  know 
the  difference  between  Giorgione  and 
Georges  Ohnet:  he  deserved  to  have  it 
stolen  from  him.  He  kept  it  shut  up,  so 
that  it  was  very  hard  for  any  one  to  get 
at  it." 

"  From  the  way  you  received  the  news, 
Charley,"  said  Stuyvesant,  "and  from 
what  you  said,  I  was  beginning  to  think 
that  the  theft  was  some  great  practical 
joke,  and  that  you  knew  the  picture  was 
gone  some  time  ago." 


B  Gate  of  GwentE*fix>e  t>ours.       35 

"I  confess  the  news  didn't  surprise 
me,"  the  artist  answered.  "A  clever 
man  would  have  no  great  difficulty  in  get 
ting  into  Sargent's  apartments  while  he 
was  away." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  Stuyvesant 
asked. 

Charley  Vaughn  flushed  up  as  though 
he  had  made  an  awkward  admission. 

"Never  mind  how  I  know,"  he  an 
swered.  "  Let's  change  the  subject.  Are 
you  going  skating  to-day?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Stuyvesant  returned. 
"I  am  going  to  call  on  Kitty  at  twelve, 
and  if  she  likes — 

"I  see:  you  will  do  as  you  are  bid. 
Happy  man,  you  are  under  petticoat  gov 
ernment  already! 

1  '  Life,  young  man,  is  only 

A  slippery  sheet  of  ice  ; 
No  girls  there,  it's  lonely — 
One  girl  there,  it's  nice.'  " 

And  with  this  he  went  toward  the  door. 
"Good-morning,"  said  Stuyvesant. 
When  Charley  Vaughn  reached  the  door, 
he  paused  as  though  in  doubt.      Then  he 


36      B  Gale  of  zrwents*f!x>e  Ibours. 

turned,  and  in  a  hesitating  way  and  with 
an  obvious  effort  he  spoke  again: 

"I  say,  Paul,  are  you  superstitious — 
like  the  Irish  gentleman  who  wouldn't 
commit  suicide  on  Friday  because  it  was 
an  unlucky  day?" 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Stuyvesant. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Char 
ley,  grasping  the  door-knob  again.  "  I 
thought  I'd  ask — that's  all.  Some  fel 
lows  are  afraid  of  doing  anything  impor 
tant  on  Friday." 

"  I  am  not,"  Stuyvesant  returned. 

"Neither  am  I,"  said  Charley.  "So 
long!  See  you  later.  I  really  must  ex 
ude  now." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MR.     PAUL    STUYVESANT    PAYS    A    VISIT. 

[FTER  Charley  Vaughn  left 
him,  Stuyvesant  remained  for 
a  minute  or  two  in  thought. 
There  was  something  in  the 
boy's  manner  that  the  elder  man  did  not 
like.  There  was  a  certain  suggestion  of 
restraint  all  through  the  interview.  Just 
what  this  peculiarity  might  be,  Paul 
could  not  precisely  define  for  himself,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  as  though  Charley  were 
laboring  under  a  suppressed  excitement. 
Beyond  all  question,  the  young  fellow  was 
suffering  from  some  tension  of  the  nerves. 
Arid  Stuyvesant  could  not  help  wondering 
whether  this  was  due  in  any  way  to  his 
relations  with  the  M.  Zalinski  to  whom 
he  had  given  a  check  which  M.  Zalinski 
had  passed  to  a  burglar. 

'Still   turning  these  things   over  in  his 
mind,  Stuyvesant  threw  his  cigarette  into 


38      H  Cale  of  SwentEsfipe  f>our0. 


the  fire  and  began  to  dress  to  go  out. 
When  the  elevator  came  up  to  take  him 
down  he  caught  himself  looking  in  the 
broad  mirror  which  filled  one  side  of  that 
aerial  vehicle.  Unwittingly  he  had  been 
examining  his  own  appearance  in  the 
looking-glass.  A  sudden  blush  mantled 
his  cheek;  and  then  he  smiled  as  he 
thought  that  six  months  before  he  never 
would  have  dreamed  of  looking  in  a  mir 
ror.  It  was  the  desire  to  appear  well  in 
her  eyes  which  tended  to  make  a  fop  of 
him.  He  smiled  again  as  he  reflected 
that  even  the  wayfaring  man,  though  a 
fool,  might  know  that  he  was  going  to  see 
the  woman  he  loved. 

When  he  came  out  on  the  street  a  sharp 
wind  struck  him,  and  he  set  out  briskly. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  rapid  walk 
and  the  bracing  breeze  Stuyvesant's  spirits 
rose,  and  he  succeeded  in  throwing  aside 
the  vague  feeling  of  depression  which  had 
overshadowed  him  ever  since  he  had  seen 
the  name  of  James  Burt  on  the  check  he 
had  given  to  Charley  Vaughn.  As  he 
breathed  the  pure  air  and  as  the  exercise 
sent  the  blood  to  his  cheeks,  he  began  to 


Sale  of  CwentE=five  t>ours. 


take  a  more  cheerful  view  of  the  matter. 
Before  he  reached  the  door  he  was  calling 
himself  a  fool  for  having  attached  any 
importance  at  all  to  what  was  probably  a 
mere  coincidence  of  no  significance  what 
ever. 

Mrs.  Vaughn's  house  was  on  a  side-street 
only  a  few  blocks  above  the  square  which 
Stuyvesant's  apartments  overlooked.  It 
was  a  very  little  house,  barely  fifteen 
feet  wide,  trying  vainly  to  make  up  in 
height  what  it  lacked  in  breadth.  Small 
as  it  was,  however,  it  was  amply  large 
enough  for  its  occupants,  Mrs.  Vaughn 
and  her  daughter  Katharine.  Mrs. 
Vaughn  was  a  widow  with  only  two  chil 
dren,  Charles  and  Katharine.  They  had 
each  an  income  fairly  sufficient  to  satisfy 
them  if  their  wishes  were  modest  and 
their  administration  economical.  Charles 
had  been  able  to  study  at  the  Paris 
School  of  Fine  Arts  and  to  spend  a  year 
in  Italy,  chiefly  at  Venice.  Katharine 
and  her  mother  had  always  lived  together; 
and  Charles,  although  he  had  set  up  for 
himself  and  had  a  bedroom  adjoining  his 
studio,  was  very  frequently  at  his  mother's 


40      a  Gale  of  C\ventB=fh>e  f>ours, 

house.  He  was  a  good  son,  as  Katha 
rine  was  a  good  daughter;  and  the  mother 
and  her  children  lived  happily. 

Stuyvesant  was  ushered  into  a  rear 
parlor,  miscalled  the  library.  In  reality 
it  was  Miss  Vaughn's  sitting-room,  and 
it  reflected  the  presence  of  a  young  lady 
of  a  charming  diversity  of  taste. 

As  Stuyvesant  entered  this  pretty  room 
of  a  pretty  girl  and  took  a  seat  amid  its 
characteristic  disorder,  a  bright  voice 
came  floating  down  from  the  floor  above : 

"Is  that  you,  Paul?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad! 
Just  wait.  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute." 

A  minute  passed,  and  two,  and  ten — 
and  Paul  still  sat  in  lonely  silence.  He 
began  to  be  a  little  impatient.  He  rose, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  three 
or  four  times.  Then  he  took  up  a  mag 
azine,  and,  resuming  his  seat,  he  turned 
its  leaves  with  indifference.  A  paper  on 
"Political  Cohesion"  caught  his  eye,  and 
in  a  few  seconds  he  became  absorbed  in  it. 

So  absorbed  was  he  that  he  did  not 
hear  the  light  rustle  of  a  dress  as  Katha 
rine  Vaughn  floated  airily  downstairs. 
He  had  his  back  to  her,  and  she  came  be- 


a  Cale  of  {TwentE=fiv>e  t>ours.      41 

hind  him  and  clasped  her  hands  over  his 
eyes. 

"  Guess  who  it  is!  "  she  cried. 

"And  what  reward  shall  I  have  if  I 
guess  aright  ?  "  he  answered  gravely. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  her  reply. 

"But  I  know  what  I  shall  insist  on," 
said  Stuyvesant.  "  It  is  Kitty!  " 

"  Somebody  must  have  told  you!  "  was 
her  laughing  confession  as  she  withdrew 
her  hands. 

"And  this  is  the  reward  I  claim,"  said 
Stuyvesant,  as  he  sprang  up  and  clasped 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't,  Paul,"  she  cried,  "don't! 
You  will  muss  my  hair,  and  I've  just 
been  fixing  it.  There,  that  will  do." 

"Just  one  more,"  he  pleaded. 

"Well,  then,  just  one." 

He  took  two. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "sit  down  where 
I  can  see  you,  and  behave  like  a  lady, 
and  not  like  a  great,  big,  rough  bear!  " 

Stuyvesant  obeyed  her,  and  took  a  seat 
on  a  sofa;  she  came  and  sat  down  by  his 
side.  Probably  no  one  who  might  see  a 
photograph  of  Miss  Katharine  Vaughn 


42      a  {Tale  of  Cwentg*fiv>e  fjours. 

would  call  her  handsome,  but  certainly 
no  one  could  talk  to  her  half  an  hour 
without  declaring  her  charming.  Her 
face  was  not  sufficiently  dignified  or  reg 
ular  to  deserve  to  be  accepted  as  beauti 
ful,  but  she  had  lively  eyes,  a  bright 
smile,  lovely  light  golden  hair,  which 
clustered  in  little  curls  behind  her  ears 
and  around  her  neck,  and  she  was  re 
ceived  as  a  pretty  girl  in  a  city  where 
there  is  no  lack  of  pretty  girls.  Perhaps 
her  charm  lay  rather  in  her  manner  than 
in  her  looks — in  her  expression,  in  her 
variety,  in  her  brilliancy.  But  that  she 
was  charming  no  one  who  knew  her  well 
would  ever  dream  of  denying;  that  she 
was  pretty,  few  would  dispute;  and  that 
she  was  really  beautiful,  Paul  Stuyvesant 
believed  as  he  believed  in  the  immortal 
ity  of  his  soul. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  out  for  a 
walk?"  asked  Stuyvesant,  when  the  first 
fervor  of  the  meeting  was  over. 

"I  want  to  walk,  of  course,"  she  an 
swered,  "but  I  can't.  I  meant  to  have 
told  you  yesterday  evening,  but  I  forgot. 
At  one  o'clock  I'm  going  to  a  grabiola." 


B  Cale  of  GwentEsfive  ttours.      43 


"A  what?  "he  inquired,  surprised  by 
this  strange  vocable. 

"A  grabiola,"  she  replied,  laughing: 
"that's  what  I  call  it.  It  is  a  girls' 
lunch  where  there  are  so  many  of  us  that 
we  don't  sit  down,  but  have  to  stand 
around  and  grab  our  food  the  best  way  we 
can.  That's  a  grabiola.  I  hate  'em 
generally;  even  regular  sit-down  lunch 
eons  are  poky  enough,  goodness  knows." 
And  then  if  you  could  hear  the  way 
some  of  those  girls  talk,  you  would  be 
scared  out  of  your  seven  senses.  Are 
there  seven  senses,  or  five,  or  three  ?  I 
always  forget,"  she  asked  with  amusing 
frankness 

"  And  how  can  you  expect  me  to  remem 
ber,  "  he  answered  gallantly,  "when  you 
know  that  I  always  lose  my  senses  in 
your  presence  ?  " 

"That's  not  so  bad  —  for  a  beginning," 
said  the  young  lady.  "  Go  up  head  !  " 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  Miss  Katharine 
Vaughn  had  caught  from  her  artist  brother 
a  certain  pictorial  vivacity  of  language 
which  often  came  perilously  close  to  the 
verge  of  slang.  But  her  lover  was  under 
4 


44      a  Cale  of  Gwentgsfive  f)ours. 

the  spell,  as  a  lover  should  be,  and  he  was 
ready  to  pick  up  for  a  pearl  or  a  ruby 
whatever  might  fall  from  her  lips. 

"  I  do  wish  you  could  just  hear  those 
girls  talk,"  she  went  on:  "sometimes  I 
can't  even  get  in  a  word  edgeways." 

"Not  even  a  sharp  one?"  he  inquired, 
smiling 

"Now,  that  isn't  fair,  Paul.  Indeed, 
it  is  really  unkind!  Have  I  ever  said  a 
sharp  word  to  you  ? "  And  she  looked  at 
him  appealingly. 

"My  dear  Kitty,"  he  hastened  to  pro 
test,  "I  didn't  mean  to  insinuate — 

"If  you  didn't  mean  it,  why  did  you  do 
it?  "she  retorted.  "That's  what  Mme. 
Parlier  used  to  say  to  us  at  school.  You 
didn't  know  me,  Paul,  when  I  was  in  the 
graduating  class  at  Mme.  Parlier's  Insti 
tute  for  Young  Ladies!  French  is  the 
language  of  the  school.  I  used  to  trans 
late  slang  into  French.  Sometimes  she 
really  strained  herself  trying  to  guess 
what  I  meant  by  saying,  ' Eh  bien,  jc 
sourirais,'  and  '  Ccla  prcnd  le  gateau. '  We 
did  have  dead  loads  of  fun  sometimes." 

"  Did  Mme.  Parlier  have  dead  loads  of 


B  Cale  of  GwentB=fix>e  f3our0.      45 

fun  also  ?  "  asked  Stuyvesant.  "  I  suppose 
she  was  like  the  frog  in  the  fable:  what 
was  fun  to  you  was  death  to  her." 

"We  didn't  kill  her.  She  is  as  fat  and 
as  jolly  as  ever.  I  go  to  see  her  two  or 
three  times  a  year.  She  always  asks  me 
if  we  are  keeping  up  our  studies.  Last 
time  I  saw  her  she  asked  if  I  could  speak 
Italian  yet,  and  I  answered  that  I  couldn't 
exactly  speak  Italian,  but  I  could  still 
dance  the  German.  I  think  that  puzzled 
her  a  little.  Now  I  really  must  send 
you  away.  I  have  lots  to  do  before  I  go 
to  lunch.  I  haven't  had  a  minute  to  my 
self  all  day,  and  I  shan't  have.  You 
needn't  smile — just  as  if  you  men  did  all 
the  work  and  we  women  were  mere  idlers. " 

Stuyvesant  inquired  what  it  was  which 
had  kept  her  so  busy. 

"Well,  at  nine  o'clock  this  morning  I 
had  to  be  at  the  Industrial  School — 

"To  learn  industry?"  he  asked  hastily. 

"To  teach  poor  children  how  to  sew," 
she  answered.  "  Incidentally  they  learn 
manners  also;  and  if  you  would  like  to 
take  lessons,  perhaps  you  had  better  ap 
ply  for  admission.  ' 


46      a  Sale  of  Gwentgsfive  fjours. 

Stuyvesant  laughed  lightly  as  she  made 
this  quick  return. 

"  And  what  else  have  you  done  to-day  ?" 
he  asked. 

"At  half -past  ten  I  went  to  Mrs.  Dun 
can's,  where  our  Shakespeare  Club  met. 
Gladys  Tennant  and  I  read  two  acts  of 
'As  You  Like  It.'  " 

"  Do  you  know  why  you  remind  me  of 
Rosalind  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  suppose  she  was  good-looking,"  she 
replied  pertly. 

"  That's  not  the  reason." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"Because,"  Stuyvesant  answered,  "I 
can  say  of  you  what  Orlando  said  of  Ros 
alind.  You  are  'just  as  high  as  my 
heart.'" 

"Really,  Paul,"  she  said,  rising,  "as 
long  as  you  say  pretty  things  like  that  I 
shall  hate  to  turn  you  out.  But  I  must 
dress  .now,  or  I'm  sure  to  be  late.  I'll 
be  good  to  you,  though.  You  can  come 
back  forme — let's  see:  after  lunch.  I'm 
going  to  the  New  York  Hospital.  You 
can  come  at  half-past  four  and  walk  there 
with  me." 


H  Gale  of  tlwcntBsfire  "fcours.      47 


"  What  on  earth  takes  you  to  the  hospi 
tal  ?  "  wasStuyvesant's  surprised  inquiry. 

"You  will  take  me  there  —  if  you  come 
for  me  in  time,"  was  her  answer. 

"  I  mean,  why  are  you  going  there  ?  " 

"To  read  to  the  children.  A  lot  of  us 
girls  have  agreed  to  go  twice  a  week, 
and  it's  my  turn  this  afternoon.  The 
Bishop  of  Tuxedo  suggested  it  to  us,  just 
before  he  went  West." 

"  Isn't  the  Bishop  of  Tuxedo  still  here  ?" 
Stuyvesant  asked,  at  once  recalling  her 
brother's  excuse  for  breaking  his  next 
morning's  appointment. 

"He  started  on  Monday,  I  think,"  was 
her  reply. 

"  And  isn't  he  going  to  be  back  soon  ?  " 

"Not  unless  you  call  three  months 
soon,"  she  answered.  "He  told  us  last 
Sunday  he  was  going  on  a  sort  of  tour  of 
inspection  as  far  as  California." 

"Are  you  certain  that  he  has  gone?" 

"Yes:  one  of  the  girls  at  the  sewing- 
school  this  morning  said  that  she  had 
seen  him  driving  down  to  the  ferry.  She 
didn't  say  whether  it  was  Monday  or 
Tuesday;  but  it  was  early  in  the  week." 


48      a  dale  of  Gwentgsfive  "toours. 

"And  he  will  not  be  in  town  here  to 
morrow  ?  "  Stuyvesant  asked  the  question 
with  the  vain  hope  that  perhaps  Charley 
had  not  deceived  him. 

"  Of  course  he  won't  be  here  to-morrow. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  going  West, 
young  man,  to  grow  up  with  the  coun 
try?" 

He  did  not  answer  her.  It  was  with  a 
shock  that  he  discovered  that  Charley 
Vaughn  had  invented  the  reason  for 
breaking  the  appointment.  Under  other 
circumstances,  he  would  not  have  thought 
twice  about  the  matter;  he  would  have 
accepted  the  artist's  elaborate  excuse  as 
an  ingenious  fiction  intended  merely  to 
hide  the  real  reason.  But  now,  since  he 
had  seen  the  name  of  James  Burt  on  the 
back  of  the  check  given  to  Charles 
Vaughn,  Stuyvesant  was  strangely  sus 
picious.  He  was  in  the  frame  of  mind  in 
which  a  man  is  ready  to  twist  things  in 
nocent  enough  in  themselves  into  a  start 
ling  semblance  of  wrong.  He  was  con 
scious  of  this  himself,  and  he  tried  to 
throw  off  the  cloak  of  doubt  and  distrust 
which  enveloped  him. 


Gale  of  Gwentgsfive  f>our0.      49 


"Have  you  seen  Charley  to-day  ?"  he 
asked,  as  Katharine  Vaughn  came  with 
him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"I've  only  seen  him  twice  this  week," 
she  answered.  "And  I  wish  he'd  come 
oftener,  for  I  don't  think  he's  at  all  bright 
just  now." 

So  she  had  noticed  it  too,  thought 
Stuyvesant. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
him,"  she  continued.  "At  first  I'd  an 
idea  that  he  might  be  in  love.  I  didn't 
like  that  at  all,  for  of  course  I  had  meant 
to  pick  out  the  girl  myself  that  Charley 
was  to  marry." 

"  Do  you  think  that  is  what's  the  mat 
ter  with  him  ?  "  Stuyvesant  asked  eagerly, 
hoping  that  some  simple  and  natural  rea 
son  like  this  might  suffice  to  explain  the 
change  in  Charley's  manner  which  both 
his  sister  and  his  friend  had  noticed. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered. 
"  Charley  in  love  would  be  a  funny  sight, 
wouldn't  it?  You  might  sell  tickets  at 
the  door,  and  that  alone  would  be  worth 
the  entire  price  of  admission.  You  know 
that  he  is  odd  enough  as  it  is,  in  some 


so      a  £ale  of  £went£*fiv>e  1>ours. 


ways.  I  don't  know  what  to  think  about 
it.  He's  always  talking  about  his  best 
girl  and  his  second-best  girl;  but  he  has 
never  told  me  who  his  best  girl  is. 
That's  very  suspicious,  isn't  it?" 

Stuyvesant  asked  whether  she  had  no 
ticed  that  her  brother  was  attentive  to  any 
particular  young  lady. 

"He's  attentive  to  them  all,  you  know: 
that's  just  the  trouble,"  was  her  reply; 
"  he's  so  amusing,  they  all  dote  on  him. 
Perhaps  he  has  been  more  taken  with 
Gladys  Tennant  than  any  one  else;  but  I 
haven't  seen  them  together  anywhere 
lately,  and  Gladys  never  talks  about 
him.  But  do  you  remember  how  they 
flirted  together  that  night  at  your  theatre- 
party  ?" 

Stuyvesant  reminded  her  that  he  had 
met  Miss  Tennant  only  once,  when  she 
had  been  invited  by  Kitty  to  the  theatre- 
party  and  to  the  following  supper.  Then 
he  asked  her  if  she  thought  that  her 
brother  was  really  interested  in  the  young 
lady. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
thought  he  was  beginning  to  take  notice; 


H  Gale  of  CvventB=fiv>e  1>ours.      51 

but  I  wouldn't  bet  big  money  on  it — as 
he  would  say." 

"Is  she  interested  in  him?"  he  asked 
next. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  either,"  she 
answered.  "Of  course  she's  a  girl,  and 
doesn't  let  on  how  she  feels  or  what  she 
thinks.  She's  been  flirting  lately  with 
Jack  Dobbin — you  know  that  little 
Frenchified  dude  who  went  to  Paris  a 
year  or  two  ago  as  Johnny  Dobbin  and 
came  back  this  fall  with  an  imported  ac 
cent,  now  calls  himself  M.  Jacques  d'Au- 
ban,  and  says  his  ancestor  drew  a  long 
bow  at  the  battle  of  Poictiers.  When  he 
told  me  that  I  wanted  to  tell  him  that  he 
was  following  in  the  family  footsteps — 
and  drawing  a  long-bow  now.  But  I 
mustn't  stay  here  chattering  to  you,  or  I 
shall  be  late  at  the  grabiola. " 

They  were  standing  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  as  she  said  this,  but  Stuyvesant 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  descend  them. 

"Be  off  with  you!"  she  cried,  as  she 
saw  that  he  made  no  movement  to  go. 

"I'm  not  in  a  hurry,"  he  remarked 
calmly. 


a  £ale  of  a\ventE=five  Ibours. 


"But  I  am.  Where-  are  you  going 
now  ?  " 

"Wherever  you  wish  me  to  go." 

"  Then  run  down  to  Maiden  Lane,  and 
tell  them  to  hurry  up  that  tennis-racket 
of  mine  you  took  to  be  restrung.  We 
are  going  to  play  twice  a  week  during 
Lent.  You  can  report  about  it  when  you 
come  here  at  half-past  four  to  take  me  to 
the  hospital.  And  go  at  once,  or  I  shall 
be  late  at  my  lunch." 

Probably  Miss  Katharine  Vaughn  was 
a  little  late  at  that  lunch,  since  it  was 
set  for  one  o'clock,  and  the  factory- 
whistles  were  shrilly  announcing  that 
hour  when  Paul  SUiyvesant  left  her 
house. 


CHAPTER    V. 

MR.    PAUL  STUYVESANT    GOES  DOWN-TOWN. 

it  was  half-past  one  by  the 
broad  dial  of  Trinity  Church 
when  Stuyvesant  turned  into 
Broadway  from  Maiden  Lane, 
having  attended  to  Miss  Vaughn's  com 
mission.  He  stood  for  a  moment  on  the 
corner  irresolutely.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  and  nowhere  to  go  until  the  time  came 
to  call  again  on  her.  Having  begun  the 
day  by  oversleeping  himself,  he  had  given 
himself  up  to  laziness;  and  he  knew  that 
he  would  accomplish  little  or  nothing 
even  if  he  should  summon  up  energy  to 
return  to  his  apartments,  where  the  in 
complete  manuscript  of  "  A  History  of 
Circumstantial  Evidence"  lay  reproach 
fully  on  his  desk. 

He  glanced  up  and  down  the  busy  thor 
oughfare,  from  which  gangs  of  swarthy 
laborers  were  rapidly  removing  the  snow 


54       B  £ale  of  G:\vcnt£=five  Ibours. 

now  trodden  into  a  dark  mire.  The  sun 
shone  brightly,  and  the  sharp  breeze  made 
him  button  his  coat  and  again  put  on  his 
sealskin  gloves,  which  he  had  pocketed 
while  inquiring  about  the  tennis-racket  in 
an  overheated  store.  The  bracing  atmos 
phere  invited  a  walk,  and  Stuyvesant 
turned  his  footsteps  to  the  Battery,  al 
ways  a  favorite  loitering-place  of  his. 

And  yet,  long  before  he  reached  the 
Battery,  Stuyvesant  stayed  his  feet  and 
turned  aside.  As  he  came  almost  in 
front  of  Trinity  Church,  he  suddenly  rec 
ollected  that  the  office  of  Eliphalet  Dun 
can  was  in  the  Bowdoin  Building,  No. 
76  Broadway.  Ever  since  he  had  seen 
Duncan's  indorsement  after  James  Burt's 
on  the  check  he  had  given  to  Charley 
Vaughn,  Paul  had  a  desire  to  meet  the 
lawyer  and  to  ask  him — well,  he  did  not 
know  exactly  what  it  was  he  wanted  to 
ask  his  friend.  He  could  not  get  Charley 
Vaughn  out  of  his  mind.  Even  the  im 
age  of  Kitty,  vivid  as  it  was  usually, 
was  obscured  by  that  of  her  brother. 
Who  was  the  M.  Zalinski  to  whom 
Charley  had  given  the  check  ?  And  what 


B  Gale  of  GwentE=five  t»ours.      55 


was  his  connection  with  the  James  Burt 
whom  Duncan  was  defending  for  having 
burglars'  tools  in  his  possession? 

So  it  was  that  when  Stuyvesant  came 
in  front  of  the  building  where  Duncan's 
office  was,  he  entered  it;  and  the  elevator 
soon  deposited  him  opposite  the  door 
which  bore  his  friend's  name. 

But  Mr.  Duncan  was  not  in,  so  the 
clerk  told  him.  Mr.  Duncan  had  re 
turned  from  a  reference  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before,  and  he  had  only  just  gone 
out  to  lunch.  Would  Mr.  Stuyvesant 
wait  for  him?  —  he  would  probably  return 
in  a  few  minutes. 

Mr.  Stuyvesant  would  not  wait  for  him, 
because  Mr.  Stuyvesant  thought  he  knew 
where  he  would  find  him  without  waiting. 

In  one  of  the  small  streets,  almost 
under  the  shadow  of  Trinity  steeple, 
there  is  a  quaint  little  old  house.  It  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  oldest  houses  in  New 
York;  for  it  was  built  when  New  York 
was  yet  New  Amsterdam.  It  was  once 
the  dwelling  of  a  Dutch  burgher  trans 
planted  to  the  New  World,  where  he  had 
sought  to  reproduce  the  comfort  to  which 


56      B  Gale  of  GAventB=five  Ibours. 

he  had  been  accustomed  in  his  native 
land.  It  was  now  decayed  and  worn  with 
years;  its  timbers  were  rotting  at  last, 
and  its  floors  were  uneven.  It  had  been 
patched  and  braced  up  and  treated  with 
reverent  care ;  but  it  was  a  very  old  house, 
and  its  time  was  soon  to  be  completed. 

It  was  now  occupied  as  a  chop-house. 
Within  its  dusky  parlor,  with  its  heavily 
cobwebbed  ceiling  and  its  cleanly  sanded 
floor,  the  New  Yorker  came  for  his  mid 
day  meal.  The  fare  which  could  be  had 
there  was  simple  and  excellent.  A  chop 
off  the  grill,  a  baked  potato,  a  kidney,  a 
fresh  mushroom,  a  porterhouse-steak — 
these  were  luxuries  obtainable  at  Tom's 
as  they  were  to  be  had  nowhere  else  in 
America.  The  place  was  called  Tom's. 
Who  Tom  was,  or  rather  who  he  had 
been,  and  where  he  had  lived,  and  where 
he  had  gone — these  were  all  questions 
which  the  frequenters  of  Tom's  forbore 
to  ask,  well  knowing  that  they  could  get 
no  answer.  The  present  proprietor  was 
a  portly  Englishman,  who  had  once  been 
an  actor.  Such  at  least  he  was  wont  to 
boast  himself  to  a  new  customer  after  a 


B  Gale  of  c:\vciitg=five  fljours.      57 

second  mug  of  his  own  half-and-half.  An 
inquisitive  reporter  had,  after  a  long  and 
difficult  search,  succeeded  in  finding  the 
playbill  of  a  performance  of  "The  School 
for  Scandal  "  at  old  Wallack's  Theatre,  on 
Broadway,  near  Broome  Street,  on  which 
Mr.  Hodges'  name  appeared  as  the  im 
personator  of  Lady  Sneerwell's  servant. 
Whatever  Mr.  Hodges'  histrionic  faculty 
or  his  theatrical  reputation  might  be,  be 
fore  he  "retired  to  private  life  to  keep  a 
public-house,"  no  one  could  dispute  the 
quality  of  the  refreshment  he  offered  to 
his  customers;  and,  in  consequence,  the 
two  small  rooms  which  constituted  the 
ground-floor  of  the  little  old  house  were 
always  inconveniently  crowded  from  half- 
past  eleven  to  half-past  two,  six  days  out 
of  seven.  What  became  of  Tom's  on 
Sunday,  or  where  Mr.  Hodges  spent  that 
day  of  rest,  no  man  ever  thought  to  ask. 
It  was  here,  in  the  little  parlor  of 
Tom's,  that  Stuyvesant  found  his  friend, 
just  about  to  beign  on  a  kidney  fresh 
from  the  gridiron.  At  the  moment  Paul 
entered  the  room  the  seat  opposite  to 
Eliphalet  Duncan's  was  vacated  by  a  ro- 


58      a  aale  of  Cwents=five  t>ours. 

bust  stock-broker,  who  put  on  a  showy 
overcoat  and  strode  forth  with  a  stately 
step  which  made  the  little  old  house 
shake  to  its  foundations. 

Stuyvesant  slipped  into  the  vacant 
seat,  saying  nothing,  and  waiting  until 
Duncan  should  look  up.  At  last  the  law 
yer  raised  his  mug  of  ale  to  his  mouth, 
and  his  eyes  were  lifted  from  his  plate. 

"Paul  Stuyvesant!"  he  cried  in  sur 
prise.  "  How  the  deuce  did  you  get  in  ?  " 

"Through  the  door,"  answered  Stuy 
vesant.  "  Is  thy  servant  a  spook,  that  he 
should  glide  in  through  the  wall  or  pass 
up  through  the  floor?" 

"  Now  you  are  here,  and  however  you 
got  here,  have  some  lunch, "said  the  law 
yer. 

"  I  breakfasted  late,  and  I  have  no  ap 
petite;  but  a  kidney  like  the  one  on  your 
plate  would  tempt  Lucullus  after  his 
banquet." 

Stuyvesant  did  not  really  want  any 
thing  to  eat.  What  he  sought  was  an  ex 
cuse  for  sitting  down  with  Duncan,  in  the 
hope  that  the  course  of  conversation 
might  so  turn  that  he  could  twist  in  an 


a  Gale  of  GwentE=fiv>e  f)ours.      59 

allusion  to  James  Burt,  and  thus  lead  up 
to  an  inquiry  as  to  M.  Zalinski.  To  ask 
outright  about  either  of  them  would  force 
him  to  declare  the  reason  why  he  wanted 
the  information;  and  he  was  not  willing 
to  mention  Charley  Vaughn's  name  care 
lessly.  He  did  not  choose  to  confess, 
even  to  himself,  how  anxious  he  was  to 
free  his  own  mind  from  the  strange  doubts 
which  clouded  it. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  pict 
ures?"  asked  Duncan  rather  abruptly, 
after  they  had  discussed  two  or  three  of 
the  minor  topics  of  the  day. 

"  I  refuse  to  commit  myself  to  a  confes 
sion  of  complete  ignorance,"  answered 
Stuyvesant. 

"Of  course,"  said  Duncan.  "But  I 
doubt  if  you  know  much  more  about  them 
than  I  do." 

"  That  depends  on  how  much  you 
know." 

Stuyvesant  laughed,  and  went  on  to  ask 
why  his  friend's  thoughts  had  been  turn- 
ing- again  to  art. 

"  Because  of  that  despatch  in  the  paper 
this  morning,"  the  lawyer  answered, 
5 


co      a  Gale  of  CwentB«ffre  f>our0. 

"about  the  stealing  of  that  picture  by 
Titian.  There's  a  thing  I  cannot  un 
derstand." 

"What  is  there  so  extraordinary  about 
it?"  asked  Stuyvesant. 

"That  anyone  should  have  stolen  it 
at  all,  that's  what's  extraordinary." 

"But  isn't  the  picture  very  valuable?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  Duncan;  "but 
what  good  will  that  do  the  thief?  He 
can't  sell  it.  Nobody  will  buy  it. 
Every  man  in  the  world  who  knows  that 
that  picture  is  more  valuable  than  a  tea- 
store  chromo  knows  also  this  morning 
that  it  has  been  stolen." 

"I  see,"  said  Stuyvesant.  "You  mean 
that  the  thief  cannot  profit  by  his  theft." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  do  mean.  He 
might  as  well  have  stolen  the  Koh-i-noor, 
for  all  the  good  it  will  do  him." 

"I  should  think  the  stealing  of  the 
Koh-i-noor  even  a  safer  enterprise  and 
more  likely  to  pay,"  Stuyvesant  returned, 
"because  a  big  diamond  can  be  broken 
up,  just  as  silver  can  be  melted  down." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Duncan.  "  And  that 
is  what  puzzles  me.  What  did  any  man 


B  (Talc  of  GAventE=ffv>e  tours,      ci 

run  the  risk  of  prison  to  take  that  which 
is  of  no  use  to  him?  That  floors  me,  I 
confess.  Problems  of  criminal  psychol 
ogy  have  a  strange  fascination  for  me, 
and  I  like  to  grapple  with  them  resolutely. 
I  have  been  turning  this  one  over  and 
over  ever  since  I  read  the  news  at  break 
fast,  and  1  am  just  as  far  from  a  solution 
as  ever." 

"  This  is  not  the  first  time  a  picture  has 
been  cut  from  the  frame  and  .carried  off," 
suggested  Stuyvesant. 

"  There  have  been  other  instances,  I 
know;  but  that  doesn't  help  me  to  an 
explanation,"  Duncan  rejoined.  "Some 
times  it  has  been  done  from  malice,  some 
times  with  the  hope  of  a  reward  for  the 
return  of  the  stolen  goods;  and  some 
times,  I  think,  the  real  cause  has  been 
some  sort  of  pictorial  monomania  on  the 
part  of  the  thief." 

"A  strange  madness  that  would  be," 
Stuyvesant  commented. 

"Of  course, "  said  Duncan;  "and  yet 
not  so  very  strange.  That  a  man  should 
be  so  taken  with  a  picture — so  fascinated 
by  it,  so  overpowered  by  its  beauty — that 


62      a  Gale  of  £\vcntE=fiY>e  Ibours. 

he  should  steal  it,  to  have  it  always  at 
his  command,  even  though  he  could  never 
show  it  to  any  other  human  eye,  that  I 
can  understand.  I  have  enough  of  the 
artist  in  me  to  understand  that." 

Stuyvesant  looked  up  seriously. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  said,  "  that 
you  believe  that  a  man  might  be  led  to 
steal  a  picture  simply  out  of  sheer  artis 
tic  appreciation  of  its  beauties,  merely  to 
have  it  in  his  possession  where  he  could 
see  it  at  will,  and  yet  knowing  that  he 
could  never  show  it  to  any  one  else?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  do  believe," 
answered  Duncan.  "  Such  things  have 
happened.  Such  a  thing  may  have  hap 
pened  in  this  case.  Indeed,  the  longer  I 
think  about  it,  the  more  inclined  I  am  to 
believe  that  this  Mary  Magdalen  of  Titian 
has  been  stolen  by  some  enthusiastic  ad 
mirer  of  Titian's  painting — 

"  Like  Charley  Vaughn,"  said  Stuyve 
sant,  smiling  at  the  idea. 

"  Like  Charley  Vaughn,"  repeated  Dun 
can;  "and  Charley,  being  an  enthusiast 
about  Titian,  is  likely  to  be  acquainted 
with  others  as  enthusiastic  as  he  is.  Per- 


B  Cale  of  Cwentjgsftoe  t>our0.       63 

he  could  guess  who  the  thief  was. 
If  the  picture  doesn't  turn  up  soon,  I'll 
have  a  chat  with  Charley,  and  maybe  we 
can  give  the  police  a  clew  or  two." 

"  I  can  see  that  the  motive  you  suggest 
is  just  possible,"  remarked  Stuyvesant, 
"  but  it  does  not  seem  probable.  Your 
other  explanation,  that  perhaps  the  pic 
ture  had  been  taken  to  hold  for  a  ransom, 
strikes  me  as  far  more  plausible." 

"Of  course,"  said  Duncan,  "  it  is  more 
plausible;  but,  for  all  that,  I  think  the 
other  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  the  right  ex 
planation.  " 

"  Is  it  absolutely  impossible  for  the 
thief  to  dispose  of  a  picture  as  well 
known  as  this  Titian?"  asked  Stuyve 
sant. 

"Absolutely  impossible,"  replied  Dun 
can,  "  or  at  least  I  should  say  so,  if  I  did 
not  know  what  extraordinary  things  a  re 
ceiver  of  stolen  goods  is  sometimes  will 
ing  to  buy." 

As  Duncan  paused,  Stuyvesant  wished 
he  knew  exactly  how  to  bring  in  the  name 
about  which  he  wanted  to  inquire.  The 
conversation  was  taking  just  the  turn  he 


64      B  Gale  of  Gwent£=fiY>e  t>ours. 

had  hoped  for;  and  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  his  own  fault  if  he  left  Tom's  without 
the  information  he  was  seeking.  Before 
he  could  find  the  words  which  would  do 
what  he  wanted,  Duncan  saved  him  the 
trouble. 

"We've  had  for  a  client  lately,"  said 
the  lawyer,  "a  notorious  old  'fence,'  as 
they  call  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods.  I 
have  had  to  defend  him  on  a  charge  which 
the  police  trumped  up  against  him.  No 
doubt  he  had  been  guilty  of  many  other 
offences,  but  of  the  particular  offence 
which  they  charged  against  him  he  was 
innocent,  as  it  happened.  And  in  the 
course  of  my  interviews  with  him,  when 
I  was  preparing  his  defence,  I  got  an  in 
side  view  of  his  business,  and  I  learned 
not  a  few  of  the  tricks  of  the  trade. 
This  Zalinski  told  me  once — 

"  Zalinski  ?  "  interrupted  Stuyvesant. 
"Michael  Zalinski?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Duncan;  "his  name  is 
Michael.  But  what  do  you  know  about 
him?" 

"  And  he  is  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods  ?" 
pursued  Stuyvesant. 


H  Cale  of  £wentg=fiv>e  t>ours.      65 

"A 'fence,'  if  you  prefer  the  phrase," 
was  the  answer. 

"  Is  he  an  accomplice  of  James  Burt's  ?  " 
asked  Stuyvesant. 

"  Now,  what,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  do  you  know  about  James  Burt?" 
was  Duncan's  astonished  demand. 

In    answer,    Stuyvesant    took    out    his 
pocket-book  and  drew  from   it   the  can 
celled   check   he   had   given    to    Charley 
Vaughn.      He  showed   it  to   Duncan,  and 
then,   turning   it  over,  he  drew  the  law 
yer's  attention  to  the  indorsements: 
Charles  Vaughn. 
M.  Zalinski. 
James  Burt. 
Eliphalct  Duncan. 

"So  that's  where  you  picked  up  the 
name,  is  it?  I  remember  the  check  well 
enough,"  Duncan  said.  "Burt  paid  it  me 
as  a  retainer." 

"I  surmised  as  much,"  Stuyvesant  in 
terjected:  "  they  are  accomplices,  I  sup 
pose,  Zalinski  and  Burt — 'pals'  you  call 
them,  I  believe? " 

"They  are  close  friends,  certainly," 
Duncan  answered.  "  It  was  Zalinski  who 


CG      a  tlale  of  GwentE=five  1bour0. 


persuaded  me  to  take  up  Burt's  case  in 
spite  of  my  distaste  for  criminal  prac 
tice." 

"And  what  manner  of  man   is  this  M. 
Zalinski?"  asked  Stuyvesant,   conscious 
of  not  a  little  constraint. 

"He's  an  odd  fish  —  a  Polish  Jew,  I 
think,  and  not  yet  wholly  Americanized. 
He  has  his  good  points  and  his  bad  — 
like  the  rest  of  us.  One  of  his  peculiari 
ties  is  that  he  keeps  no  bank-account, 
although  he  is  making  money  hand  over 
fist.  If  he  gets  a  check  he  pays  it  out 
again  as  soon  as  he  can.  That's  the  way 
I  came  to  get  this  check  of  yours. 
Charley  gave  it  to  Zalinski,  and  he 
passed  it  along  to  Burt  as  soon  as  he 
could  --  " 

"  In  full  payment  for  stolen  goods,  I 
suppose,  and  no  questions  asked  ?  "  sug 
gested  Stuyvesant. 

"Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not,"  Duncan 
answered.  "  He  may  have  lent  Burt  the 
money,  or  even  given  it  to  him  outright; 
there's  no  knowing.  The  two  men  are 
'thick  as  thieves  in  Vallombrosa,  '  to  use 
a  merry  jest  of  Charley's." 


B  Gale  of  Cvventgsfive  f)ours.      67 


"  Does  Charley  know  this  burglar  of 
yours?"  inquired  Stuyvesant,  with  an 
affectation  of  levity. 

"How  should  he?"  returned  Duncan 
in  surprise. 

"I  thought  that  he  might,  perhaps," 
Stuyvesant  explained  feebly. 

"Of  course,"  Duncan  continued,  "for 
all  I  know,  Charley  may  be  an  intimate 
friend  of  my  burglar,  as  you  call  him;  I 
can't  say.  But  he  has  had  dealings  with 
Zalinski  more  than  once,  I'm  sure." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  Stuy 
vesant,  with  an  increasing  sense  of  dan 
gerous  discovery. 

"Because  Zalinski  has  twice  given  me 
checks  drawn  to  his  order  by  Charley," 
the  lawyer  replied. 

Stuyvesant  looked  at  him  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  managed  to 
inquire  at  last,  "that  this  check  of  mine 
is  not  the  first  that  has  come  to  you  bear 
ing  the  signatures  of  both  M.  Zalinski 
and  Charles  Vaughn  ?  " 

"I  think  it's  the  third,"  his  friend  an 
swered;  "the  other  two  were  Charley's 


68      8  Gale  of  G\ventE=fiY>e  f>ourg. 

own  checks,  drawn  to  Zalinski's  order 
and  by  him  indorsed  over  to  me  as  part 
of  my  fees." 

Stuyvesant  wanted  to  ask  Duncan  if  he 
could  suggest  any  reason  why  Charley 
should  pay  money  to  a  receiver  of  stolen 
goods.  The  question  framed  itself  in  his 
mind,  but  it  stuck  in  his  throat.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  it.  He 
was  not  willing  to  excite  Duncan's  sus 
picion  by  any  untoward  inquiry. 

He  looked  up  at  Duncan  with  an  anx 
ious  glance  of  examination.  Although  he 
dared  not  inquire,  he  wondered  how  the 
lawyer  explained  to  himself  the  strange 
conjunction  of  the  artist,  the  "fence," 
and  the  burglar.  Stuyvesant  himself  had 
no  explanation  to  offer;  he  was  wholly  at 
a  loss.  He  did  not  know  what  to  think. 
That  his  own  check  given  to  Charley 
should  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  Za- 
linski  was  remarkable  enough.  That 
Charley  should  twice  before  have  paid 
Zalinski  money  was  even  more  extraor 
dinary. 

Before  Stuyvesant  could  invent  a  plau- 


B  Gale  of  G\ventE=fiv>e  f>ours.      69 

sible  method  of  pursuing  the  conversation, 
and  adroitly  eliciting  Duncan's  opinion 
on  the  transaction,  a  single  stroke  from 
the  steeple  of  Trinity  declared  that  it  was 
half-past  two.  The  lawyer  rapped  on  the 
table. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Paul,"  he  said, 
as  the  waiter  came  up;  "but  I  have  an 
appointment  with  a  client  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour. " 

"  I  must  be  off  myself,"  returned  Stuy- 
vesant,  rising  as  though  he  were  in  a 
hurry,  his  mental  trouble  communicating 
itself  to  his  body. 

Duncan  paid  the  waiter,  and  the  two 
friends  wended  their  way  out  of  Tom's 
and  turned  toward  Broadway. 

In  the  midst  of  the  crossing  and  scat 
tering  throng  it  was  impossible  for  Stuy- 
vesant  to  continue  the  conversation  in  the 
tone  he  wished  for.  And  yet  before  they 
came  to  a  stop  at  the  broad  white  marble 
steps  of  the  Bowdoin  Building,  where 
Duncan  had  his  office,  Stuyvesant  had 
irfanaged  to  express  his  curiosity  about 
Zalinski  so  as  to  lead  the  lawyer  to  tell 


70      a  {Tale  of  awentgsfive  f)ours. 


him  just  where  the  receiver  of  stolen 
goods  lived.  It  was  in  Bleecker  Street, 
about  two  blocks  west  of  Broadway. 

After  a  few  words  of  hasty  farewell, 
they  shook  hands,  and  Duncan  went  into 
the  building  before  which  they  were  stand 
ing. 

As  soon  as  his  friend  had  gone,  Stuy- 
vesant  took  out  one  of  his  cards  and 
wrote  down  the  exact  number  of  M.  Za- 
linski's  place  of  business. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

MR.    PAUL    STUYVESANT    CALLS    ON     M.     ZA- 
LINSKI. 

[TUYVESANT  had  abundant 
subject  for  thought  as  he 
pursued  his  course  northward 
along  Broadway,  walking 
briskly  to  keep  his  blood  in  circulation 
until  a  car  should  overtake  him.  Michael 
Zalinski  was  a  "fence" — a  receiver  of 
stolen  goods — a  man  of  a  class  which 
Paul  knew  as  having  an  existence  in  every 
great  city,  in  common  with  the  burglar, 
the  bunco-man,  and  the  lawless  element 
generally,  but  with  which  he  had  never 
come  in  contact  personally.  Of  the  man 
ners  and  habits  of  men  of  this  class  he 
was  as  profoundly  ignorant  as  he  might 
be  of  the  daily  life  of  the  ichthyosaurus. 
And  yet  he  was  going  to  meet  this  strange 
being,  familiar  enough  in  the  abstract, 
but  curiously  unfamiliar  in  the  concrete. 
He  was  going  to  beard  this  undescribed 


of  Cwentgsfive  1bour0. 


lion  in  his  den;  and  he  had  the  street  and 
number  of  the  den  pencilled  on  a  card  in 
his  pocket.  How  this  pariah  of  Bleecker 
Street  would  receive  him,  what  he  would 
be  like,  how  much  or  how  little  a  mem 
ber  of  so  secretive  a  profession  woulo 
be  disposed  to  tell,  and  how  much  or  how 
little  of  his  communication  would  be 
worthy  of  credit,  Paul  did  not  know. 

It  was  a  singularly  distasteful  mission, 
this  on  which  he  was  bent.  As  an  ama 
teur  he  enjoyed  a  bit  of  detective  work. 
He  admired  the  skill  of  Gaboriau's  detec 
tives,  although  he  recognized  that  the 
problems  they  encountered  were  invented 
only  to  be  solved.  Probably  it  was  an 
unacknowledged  taste  in  this  direction 
which  had  led  him  to  adopt  the  fallacies 
of  circumstantial  evidence  as  the  subject 
of  his  first  book.  But  this  was  little 
more  than  a  clever  man's  satisfaction  in 
the  successful  piecing  together  of  an  in 
genious  puzzle.  Paul's  mind  followed 
Lecoq  willingly  enough  through  slums 
and  haunts  into  which  Paul  himself  would 
never  have  dreamed  of  taking  his  body. 
And  yet  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  the 


B  Cale  of  Cwcntg=fi\>e  f>ours.      73 

shop — the  house — the  lair — how  should 
it  be  termed  ? — of  a  "  fence." 

The  connection  of  a  "fence"  with  the 
outside  world,  so  Paul  argued,  must  needs 
be  twofold.  The  receiver  of  stolen  goods 
is  the  manager  of  the  jobbing  and  com 
mission  house  of  crime.  Like  other  com 
mission  houses,  it  must  buy  from  the  pro 
ducer  to  sell  to  the  consumer.  Therefore 
he  will  pay  money  to  the  one  and  receive 
it  from  the  other.  James  Burt,  the  house 
breaker,  is  a  producer — that  is  plain 
enough;  and  nothing  was  more  natural 
than  that  Zalinski  should  pay  him  money 
• — Charley's  check,  for  instance.  This 
reasoning  was  a  sensible  relief  to  Stuy- 
vesant's  mind.  Of  course  he  did  not 
suspect  Charley  of  anything  wrong;  he 
would  have  scoffed  at  any  one  who  should 
have  suggested  that  he  might  come  to  be 
lieve  that  the  young  artist  was  guilty  of 
any  evil ;  yet  it  was  a  relief  to  remember 
that  because  a  man  pays  money  to  a  re 
ceiver  of  stolen  goods  there  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  has  been  selling  plunder. 

Of  course  Stuyvesant  had  read  "Oliver 
Twist,"  and  he  had  seen  the  play  which 


74      a  Cale  of  {Twentgsfive  "fcours. 

has  been  made  out  of  it.  Fagin,  he  as 
sumed,  was  a  tolerably  correct  portrait 
of  a  typical  "fence;"  but  Fagin  belonged 
to  the  London  of  half  a  century  ago, 
while  Zalinski  belonged  to  the  New  York 
of  to-day.  A  change  of  climate  and  an  ad 
vance  of  forty  years  or  more  would  natu 
rally  make  many  a  modification  in  Fagin. 

These  mental  queries  were  idle,  he 
confessed  to  himself;  for  he  would  soon 
know  what  manner  of  man  Zalinski  might 
be.  Here  was  the  number.  He  stopped 
in  surprise  and  doubt,  staring  hard  at  the 
house  in  front  of  him,  as  though  he  had 
made  a  mistake. 

Opposite  him  a  door  swung  and  creaked 
as  some  one  passed  out.  Over  his  head 
glittered  the  arms  of  Lombardy,  and  be 
neath  a  legend  in  tarnished  gilding  set 
forth: 


M.    ZALINSKI, 
LICENSED   PAWNBROKER. 

LIBERAL    ADVANCES    ON    ALL    KINDS    OF 
PERSONAL    PROPERTY. 

UNREDEEMED  PLEDGES  FOR  SALE. 


a  Gale  of  CwentE=five  ibours.      75 

Stuyvesant  had  never  bargained  for 
this.  The  "  fence  "  was  bad  enough ;  but, 
in  a  way,  the  pawnbroker  seemed  infi 
nitely  worse.  Around  the  one  had  hung 
the  halo  of  some  sort  of  mystery;  while 
the  other  stood  boldly  confessed  as  the 
licensed  conductor  of  a  shabby,  sordid, 
and  (in  Paul's  eyes)  degraded  trade. 
And  Charley  had  paid  this  man  money — 
not  once,  nor  twice,  but  several,  perhaps 
many,  times.  And  Duncan,  ignoring  the 
ostensible  business  altogether,  had  spoken 
of  him  as  a  "  fence." 

The  door  swung  back  once  more,  and 
then  hung,  quivering  and  complaining, 
in  its  normal  position,  half  open,  half 
shut,  as  two  young  men  passed  out. 

One  of  them  was  attaching  a  latch-key 
to  his  watch-chain  as  he  came  down  the 
steps. 

"Time's  up,"  he  remarked,  with  a 
coarse,  reckless  laugh. 

"  And  it's  likely  to  be  up  for  a  while," 
responded  the  other.  "  D'ye  see  those 
three  balls?"  and  he  pointed  upward 
"  D'ye  know  what  they  stand  for?" 

"Do  I?"  said  the  first  speaker,  some- 


76      a  Gale  of  Gwentgsfive  1)ours. 


what  bitterly.  "I  think  I've  had  a  good 
chance  to  learn." 

"  They  mean  that  it's  two  to  one  you 
don't'  get  anything  out,  once  you  put 
it  in." 

"  Double  the  odds  and  it's  a  safe  bet 
still,  "said  the  young  man,  buttoning  his 
coat  so  as  still  to  display  the  watch-chain. 
"  Devil  may  care,  for  all  of  me.  Come 
on:  we've  got  the  boodle  now;  let's  go 
somewhere  and  get  a  ball  for  ourselves." 

"I'm  with  you,  "replied  the  other,  with 
evident  alacrity. 

Stuyvesant  watched  them  as  they  passed 
down  the  street,  until  the  nearest  saloon 
swallowed  them  up.  They  had  not  far 
to  go. 

He  walked  away  to  the  next  corner  and 
paused  there  for  a  moment.  He  felt  an 
almost  invincible  repugnance  to  enter 
the  place.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
would  leave  something  of  his  self-respect 
behind  him.  What  would  Kitty  think  if 
she  were  to  see  him  going  into  a  low, 
disreputable  pawnshop  or  coming  out  of 
it?  Then  he  laughed  to  himself,  as  he 
glanced  up  and  down  the  street;  it  did 


a  Cale  of  Cwentg=fiv>e  fjours.      77 

not  seem  a  likely  promenade  for  a  fash 
ionable  young  lady. 

Stuyvesant  was  fully  conscious  that 
there  was  nothing  wrong  or  dishonorable 
in  what  he  was  about  to  do;  and  yet,  if 
he  had  been  going  to  commit  a  theft  he 
could  not  have  felt  more  nervous  and  un 
comfortable  than  he  did  as  he  ran  up  the 
steps  and  pushed  open  the  creaking  door. 
He  let  it  fall  behind  him,  glad  to  screen 
himself  from  the  street,  yet  feeling  more 
like  a  sneak  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his 
life  before. 

He  found  himself  in  along  room  which 
ran  the  entire  depth  of  the  house,  the  par 
titions  having  been  removed.  It  had  a 
close,  musty  smell,  in  strong  contrast  to 
the  keen,  frosty  air  without.  Little  day 
light  filtered  through  the  unwashed  win 
dows;  but  the  place  was  bright  enough 
with  the  garish  brilliance  of  half-a-dozen 
flaring  gas-jets.  To  the  left  of  the  en 
trance-door  the  view  was  obscured  by  a 
couple  of  wooden  screens,  which  served 
to  Wall  off  little  spaces  not  unlike  the 
stalls  in  a  confessional.  These  were  for 
the  transaction  of  business  with  such  cus- 


73      B  Gale  of  tXwentE=fi\?e  foours. 

tomers  as  might  feel  a  delicacy  about  ne 
gotiating  their  loans  in  the  bold  public 
ity  of  the  main  shop.  Paul  tried  each  of 
these  three  sanctuaries  in  turn,  but  all 
three  of  them  were  occupied. 

Down  the  entire  length  of  the  room 
ran  an  extremely  broad  counter  of 
cheaply-painted  wood,  stained  and  dirty, 
and  worn  smooth  at  the  edges  by  cling 
ing  hands.  The  wall  behind  it  was  com 
pletely  hidden  by  a  succession  of  shelves, 
filled  to  their  utmost  capacity  with  queer, 
nondescript  bundles. 

"One  coat  and  vest — a  dollar  ninety !  " 

Paul  turned  sharply  in  the  direction  of 
the  strident  voice,  and  saw  the  whole 
long  vista  of  the  pawnbroker's  shop 
stretching  out  before  him  in  the  gas-light, 
the  package-encumbered  wall,  the  broad 
brown  counter,  the  various  customers 
dotted  along  it.  Poverty's  exchange  was 
doing  a  rushing  business. 

A  tall  and  rather  good-looking  young 
man  was  at  the  receipt  of  custom.  He 
had  dark  eyes,  black,  curly  hair,  and  a 
shapely,  erect  figure.  As  he  deftly  and 
with  a  practised  hand  rolled  up  some 


B  Cale  of  Cwentssfivc  Ibours.      79 


garments  into  a  tight  bundle,  the  glitter 
of  a  particularly  large,  white  diamond  on 
one  finger  caught  Paul's  eye.  Could  this 
be  Zalinski  ?  he  wondered;  and  he  rather 
hoped  it  was. 

"Now,  don't  let  the  moths  get  at  them," 
said  a  frowsy-looking  man,  who  had  just 
—  it  is  to  be  hoped  only  temporarily  — 
relinquished  possession  of  the  coat  and 
waistcoat. 

The  young  man  laughed  lightly  and 
pleasantly. 

"We  can't  afford  to  board  no  moths 
here,"  he  answered,  as  he  stepped  back 
and  took  two  small  pieces  of  paper  from 
the  clerk  at  the  desk.  "You'll  find  the 
goods  right  enough  when  you  come  to 
redeem  them  —  if  you  ever  do,"  he  added 
in  a  lower  tone,  pinning  a  ticket  to  the 
bundle,  and  adroitly  tossing  it  into  a  nar 
row  vacant  place  on  the  crowded  shelves 
near  the  ceiling.  Then  he  opened  a 
drawer,  slapped  a  silver  dollar,  three 
quarters,  and  a  dime  and  a  nickel  loudly 
on  the  counter,  and  pushed  them  across 
to  the  frowsy  man  along  with  the  other 
ticket,  on  which  the  ink  was  still  wet  and 


so      B  Gale  of  Gwente=fiv>e  Ibours. 

shining  through  the  sand  that  had  been 
sprinkled  on  it. 

"A  dollar  ninety,"  he  said.      "Next." 

"Sure  an'  that's  me,"  said  a  trembling 
voice,  and  a  young  woman  took  her  place 
at  the  counter.  Paul  looked  at  her  with 
interest.  Under  more  favorable  circum 
stances  he  might  have  thought  her  a 
pretty  girl,  but  now,  with  hollow  cheeks 
and  large  bright  eyes — with  a  thin, 
slightly  stooped  figure,  clad  for  this  in 
clement  weather  in  nothing  better  than 
an  old  calico  gown,  and  a  ragged  shawl 
pinned  across  her  shoulders — she  seemed 
pathetic  enough. 

"Ah,  but  it's  well  we're  lookin'  the 
day,  Mr.  Zalinski  "  (Paul  started  as  he 
heard  the  name),  "an*  as  handsome  an' 
fine  as  iver.  Sure  it's  a  treat  for  the 
poor  souls  that  does  be  comin'  here  to 
have  the  likes  of  yerself  to  dale  wicl." 

The  young  man  was  evidently  not 
averse  from  a  few  compliments.  He 
caressed  his  black  mustache  with  the 
diamond-decked  hand,  thereby  at  once 
displaying  the  gem  and  concealing  a 
gratified  smile. 


a  Gale  ot  tTwentgsfive  Ibours.      81 

"Well,  Mary,  you  give  yourself  the 
treat  pretty  often.  What  is  it  to-day?" 

"Only  a  thrifle,  sir;  it's "  She 

placed  a  bundle  on  the  counter,  and  with 
nervous  fingers  fumbled  at  the  knots. 
Stuyvesant  noticed  how  her  hand  trem 
bled,  and  how  her  dark  eyes  were  raised 
every  moment  in  mute,  despairing  appeal 
to  the  handsome,  self-satisfied  face  of  the 
young  pawnbroker.  Her  pitiful  attempt 
at  humor  had  died  out  as  the  moment  for 
trying  her  last  chance  had  come. 

Zalinski  lost  patience. 

"Come,  hurry  up,"  he  said  roughly. 
"This  isn't  a  thousand  dollar  job  of 
yours,  I  suppose.  I  can't  waste  all  day 
over  it." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she 
managed  to  laugh. 

"  Oh,  the  sorra  a  thousand  dollars,  sir. 
Sure  that's  for  gintlemen  like  you,  not 
for  the  likes  of  me.  I  only  want 

She  hesitated  as  the  last  knot  yielded 
to  her  hand.  She  needed  so  many  things 
that  she  wanted  the  last  penny  she  could 
secure  as  an  advance;  but  it  would  be 
absurd  to  ask  too  much,  and  terrible  to 


82      a  Gale  of  awentB=five  f>our0. 


ask  too  little.  She  spread  out  the  con 
tents  of  the  bundle  on  the  counter. 

"I  want  —  forty  cents  on  this  shawl  and 
pair  of  shoes." 

The  poor  shoes  were  cast  back  to  her 
with  quick  contempt;  and,  indeed,  they 
merited  no  better  fate.  Only  despair 
would  have  brought  them  to  such  a  place. 

"Call  those  things  shoes!  Take  them 
to  a  junk-shop.  Let's  see  the  shawl. 
H'm!  I  thought  so.  I  wouldn't  take 
the  whole  outfit  as  a  gift.  Forty  cents, 
indeed!" 

"  Sure  it's  better  nor  this  one  I  have  on. 
Ye'll  let  me  have  a  quarter  on  it,  anyhow  ?" 

"What  d'ye  take  this  place  for?  A 
rag-shop  ?  Take  your  shawl  home  and 
cut  the  holes  out  of  it,  and  then  come 
back  and  talk  to  me." 

And  then  the  young  pawnbroker  turned 
away  with  an  indignant  sniff. 

"  Ochone,  sir,  sure  ye'  11  not  be  so  cruel? 
Listen,  now!  My  man's  got  a  job.  He 
goes  to  work  Monday.  Not  a  word  of 
lie  in  it!  Indade  he  does;  and  sorra  a 
thing  is  there  in  the  house  —  neither  bit 
nor  sup  —  and  the  childer  cryin'  —  an'— 


£ale  of  Ewentgsffve  Tbours.      83 

tore  the  thin  shawl  from  her 
shoulders  and  added  it  to  the  other. 

"Won't  ye  let  me  have  twenty-five  on 
the  two?  Next  week  I'll  redeem  them. 
They'll  be  no  time  wid  ye.  Ah,  look  at 
them  ag'in,  Mr.  Zalinski.  Ye'll  niver  be 
after  refusin'  me? " 

But  the  pawnbroker  was  not  even  lis 
tening  to  her.  He  had  gone  up  to  one  of 
the  more  secluded  compartments,  whence 
a  fairly  white  hand  protruded  across  the 
counter.  From  this  hand  he  had  just  re 
ceived  a  cluster  ring,  which  he  was  ex 
amining  in  every  possible  light.  No 
longer  did  Stuyvesant  take  comfort  from 
the  prepossessing  appearance  of  the  man. 
He  was  sorry  that  this  was  Zalinski. 

Meanwhile,  the  poor  Irishwoman  had 
gathered  her  paltry  belongings  from  the 
counter  slowly  and  reluctantly.  She  was 
weeping  unrestrainedly  now,  and  mur 
muring  broken  words  below  her  breath. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  make  up  her 
bundle  again,  but  placed  both  shawls 
over  her  shoulders;  one  of  them  had  a 
gaudy  red  pattern,  and  the  other  was  a 
more  sombre  black,  and — as  they  were 


84      a  Gale  of  awentB=five  Ibours. 

carelessly  adjusted,  and  the  colors  in  the 
lower  one  showed  through  the  holes  in 
the  upper — the  effect  was  bizarre.  She 
took  the  shoes  in  her  hand,  and  turned 
toward  the  door. 

Paul  had  never  realized  the  existence 
of  poverty  like  this.  Now  and  again  he 
had  given  a  trifle  to  tramps  and  beggars, 
always  in  violation  of  his  principles,  for 
he  was  a  sound  theorist  in  political  econ 
omy.  But  here  was  a  genuine  case  of 
destitution  and  despair.  He  felt  a  lump 
rising  in  his  throat  as  he  stepped  forward 
to  address  the  woman. 

At  this  moment  the  strident  tones  is 
sued  their  order  to  the  automaton  at  the 
desk: 

"Seventy-five  dollars  on  a  cluster  dia 
mond  and  ruby  ring." 

The  announcement  enchained  the  at 
tention  of  every  one  in  the  shop.  Evi 
dently  the  transaction  was  of  sensational 
magnitude. 

"What  name?"  was  asked;  and  from 
the  obscurity  of  the  partition  a  female 
voice  answered,  with  a  little  laugh: 

"Cash,  Brooklyn." 


of  G\ventE=fiv>e  Ibours.      85 


And  the  clerk  made  his  entry. 

Meanwhile  Stuyvesant  had  found  a 
moment  to  speak  to  the  Irishwoman. 
He  had  not  inquired  how  she  happened 
to  be  reduced  to  such  a  plight;  he  had 
not  asked  what  was  her  husband's  busi 
ness;  he  had  merely  slipped  into  her 
hand  five  dollars  and  his  card. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  in  such 
trouble,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  trifle 
which  may  help  you  along  till  your  hus 
band  gets  to  work.  Don't  be  afraid;  I 
can  afford  it.  And  if  you'll  let  me  know 
if  there's  anything  further  —  if  any  acci 
dent  should  happen  —  my  address  is  on 
that  card.  I  think  I  know  of  some  peo 
ple  who  would  inquire  into  your  case, 
and  do  more  for  you  than  I  can." 

He  turned  away  from  the  poor  crea 
ture's  tearful,  wondering  thanks.  Leav 
ing  her  to  marvel  what  manner  of  angel 
this  might  be  who  did  good  in  pawnshops, 
he  faced  the  counter  again. 

He  caught  Mr.  Zalinski's  eye  as  that 
worthy  returned  from  depositing  the 
cluster  ring  in  the  safe.  The  young 
pawnbroker  at  once  accosted  Paul,  whose 


86      a  Gale  of  a\vents=five  1bour0. 

dress  and  appearance  suggested  another 
possible  transaction  of  similar  impor 
tance. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?"  said 
he  politely,  half  leaning,  half  reaching 
across  the  counter  with  a  suggestive  ges 
ture. 

Stuyvesant's  watch-chain  was  visible, 
and  from  it  depended  a  locket,  and  in 
that  locket  was  a  very  good  likeness  of 
Miss  Vaughn.  The  pawnbroker's  glance 
seemed  to  have  been  attracted  to  it,  and 
his  hand  indicated  and  in  a  manner  in 
vited  it. 

Stuyvesant  hastily  fastened  his  coat, 
which  he  had  unbuttoned  a  moment  be 
fore  to  reach  his  card-case.  Having  thus 
answered  the  gesture  in  the  negative, 
he  proceeded  to  answer  the  question  in 
the  affirmative. 

"If  you  can  spare  me  a  moment,  I  will 
tell  you.  You  are  Mr.  Zalinski,  I  be 
lieve?" 

"  That  is  my  name,"  returned  the  young 
man,  slightly  surprised. 

As  a  rule,  his  customers  did  not  trouble 
themselves  much  about  his  identity,  be- 


B  Cale  of  £vvents*fiv>e  Dours.      87 

ing  often  more  occupied  in  concealing 
their  own. 

"A  week  or  so  ago,"  began  Stuyvesant 
— "  just  before  Christmas,  I  suppose — you 
received,  doubtless  in  the  course  of  busi 
ness,  a  check " 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  uncertain  how 
to  proceed;  but  the  young  man  behind 
the  counter  broke  in  impatiently: 

"  We  receive  a  great  many  checks  in 
the  course  of  business.  Come  to  the 
point  at  once.  I  am  very  busy." 

"  I  am  anxious  to  trace  this  check.  It 
was  drawn  by  me  to  the  order  of  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  made  payable  by  him  to 
you.  From  you  it  passed  to  James 
Burt." 

The  pawnbroker  looked  at  him  sharply 
and  suspiciously. 

"  You  seem  to  have  traced  it  pretty 
well  already, "  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
any  James  Burt.  Are  you  sure  the  check 
passed  through  my  hands  ?  " 

"It  was  indorsed  M.  Zalinski;  not  a 
very  common  name,  surely,"  answered 
Paul. 

"  Common    or     uncommon,    it     is    not 


88      a  (Tale  of  Cwents=fix>e  Ibours, 

mine.  My  name  is  Isaac,"  was  the  rough 
reply. 

"Your  sign  outside  reads  M.  Zalinski," 
pursued  Stuyvesant. 

"That's  my  father's  name.  This  bus 
iness  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"  Can  I  see  your  father,  then  ?  "  asked 
Paul  eagerly. 

Somehow,  he  was  relieved  to  learn  that 
Charley's  business  did  not  lie  with  this 
shrewd,  handsome  young  fellow,  who 
seemed,  like  his  own  diamond,  all  glit 
ter,  without  a  soft  spot  anywhere  about 
him. 

"Can  you  see  my  father?"  the  clerk 
repeated  slowly.  "Well,  I  don't  know; 
I'll  ask  him." 

He  stepped  back  and  took  up  a  speak 
ing-tube  which  hung  at  an  angle  of  one 
of  the  shelves,  and  evidently  communi 
cated  with  the  regions  above.  He 
whistled  into  it,  and  held  it  to  his  ear 
waiting  for  a  response.  This  was  not 
long  in  coming,  for  the  young  man  speed 
ily  spoke  into  the  tube. 

Stuyvesant  now  listened  to  a  curious, 
one-sided  dialogue:  he  could  hear  every 


a  Gale  of  awentg=fiv>e  Ibours.      89 

word  Isaac  Zalinski  said,  but  the  replies 
from  above  were  inaudible. 

"  Gentleman  wants  to  see  you  a  minute, " 
was  the  first  message  entrusted  to  the  tube. 

Then  came  a  pause.  The  upper  regions 
were  returning  their  answer. 

"I  don't  know.  Something  about  a 
check. " 

Another  pause. 

"  Quite  the  swell.  Talks  smooth  and 
dresses  well." 

The  unseen  interlocutor  apparently 
took  some  time  to  consider  this  descrip 
tion,  and  Paul  realized  that  the  New 
York  Fagin,  behind  his  open  door,  was 
not  so  accessible  after  all. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Never  saw  him  be 
fore.  Don't  look  as  if  he  was  on  any 
lay,"  was  young  Zalinski's  next  contribu 
tion  to  the  interview;  and  Stuyvesant  in 
ferred  that  the  gentleman  at  the  other 
end  had  endeavored  to  connect  him  with 
some  of  the  crib-cracking  fraternity. 

After  another  application  of  the  tube 
to  his  ear,  the  young  man  turned: 

"Say,  young  fellow,  you're  not  from 
Mulberry  Street,  are  you?" 


90      a  Cale  of 


Paul  did  not  for  a  moment  appreciate 
the  significance  of  the  question. 

"No:  I  live  uptown,"  he  answered 
simply. 

The  other  favored  him  with  a  pro 
tracted  stare. 

"Well,  there's  no  telling,"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  and  then  sent  his  voice  upward  : 

Then,  after  a  moment,  he  dropped  the 
tube. 

"The  old  man'll  see  you  in  a  minute," 
he  said,  and  at  once  returned  to  the 
counter,  the  most  eligible  point  of  which 
was  now  occupied  by  an  old  and  portly 
negro  woman. 

"Well,  Aunt  Hannah,  what  can  I  do 
for  you  to-day  ?" 

There  was  a  bulky  bundle  in  front  of 
the  woman.  It  was  neatly  pinned  up  in 
two  towels,  which  she  now  proceeded  to 
unfasten. 

"Only  a  trifle,  honey,"  she  said.  "I 
hab  pressin'  occasion  fo'  a  matter  ob  five 
dollahs  till  Monday." 

"  Gig's  coming  up  then,  eh  ?  "  said  the 
pawnbroker,  with  a  laugh.  "Well,  let's 
have  a  look  at  the  collat." 


H  Cale  ot  Cwentgsfive  t>ours.       91 

"Oh,  it's  a-comni"  this  time  shuah," 
said  the  negress,  throwing  back  the  tow 
els.  "I  dreamed  it,  I  did;  an'  my  ole 
man,  what's  never  knowed  to  go  wrong, 
he  dreamed  it  the  same  as  I  did." 

She  took  six  shirts  from  the  bundle. 
Paul  could  see  that  they  were  of  the  finest 
quality,  with  initials  marked  in  embroid 
ery,  and  most  beautifully  washed  and 
ironed.  Zalinski  counted  them  over  care 
lessly  and  with  a  disparaging  air. 

"Give  you  four  dollars,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"  Foah's  no  manner  ob  use  to  me, 
honey;  must  hab  five.  Couldn't  get 
along  wfth  foah,  nohow." 

"  Why,  four's  enough  to  gamble  away 
at  policy  in  one  week,  isn't  it?  Or  has 
washing  taken  a  boom,  that  you  can 
afford  to  plunge  this  way?"  returned  the 
young  man. 

Paul  gasped.  This  woman  was  a  laun 
dress,  and  she  was  actually  pawning  some 
of  her  customers'  shirts  to  risk  the  money 
in  some  obscure  form  of  gambling! 

"I  tells  you,  chile,  dis  yar  is  shuah! 
an'  I  ain't  a-gwine  to  go  no  little  con- 


92      a  Gale  of  Cvvent£=five  t>ours. 

temptuous  picayune  stake  on  a  shuah 
thing.  Not  for  Hannah!  "  persisted  the 
old  woman. 

Zalinski  appeared  to  hesitate  a  mo 
ment;  then  he  cried: 

"Five  dollars  on  half  a  dozen  cambric 
shirts!" 

Meanwhile,  Paul  was  plunged  in  a  most 
unpleasant  doubt  as  to  whether  his  own 
proper  shirts — and  he  was  very  particular 
about  his  linen — ever  passed  through  an 
experience  like  this.  He  employed  a 
colored  washerwoman,  and  he  had  never 
troubled  his  head  to  inquire  what  might 
be  the  fate  of  this  personal  property  from 
the  day  he  took  it  off  till  the  day  he 
donned  it  again.  It  gave  him  a  cold 
chill  to  reflect  on  the  possibility  that  his 
shirts  might  have  spent  some  of  the  in 
tervening  time  in  such  an  establishment 
as  this.  His  laundress  lived  uptown,  it 
was  true,  in  one  of  the  streets  off  Sixth 
Avenue,  as  well  as  he  could  remember; 
but  then  there  were  pawnshops  every 
where,  and  policy-playing  was  not  con 
fined  to  any  particular  locality. 

A   shrill   whistle   broke   the   thread  of 


a  Gale  of  Gwentgsfive  ibours.      93 

these  unpleasant  reflections.  He  looked 
up.  The  sound  had  come  from  the  tube. 

The  young  pawnbroker  was  in  the  act 
of  slapping  down  five  silver  dollars  and  a 
ticket  before  the  negress.  He  looked  up 
and  caught  Stuyvesant's  eye;  then  he 
nodded. 

"That's  the  old  man,"  he  said.  "He'll 
see  you  now.  Go  out  in  the  passage  and 
go  up  one  flight  of  stairs.  Room  over 
this,  second  floor  front." 

Stuyvesant  went  out  silently;  and,  fol 
lowing  these  directions,  he  soon  found 
himself  in  front  of  a  closed  door  at  the 
end  of  an  extremely  dark  passage.  He 
knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  voice. 

As  Stuyvesant  entered,  the  sole  occu 
pant  of  the  room,  who  was  seated  at  a 
desk,  spun  nimbly  round  in  his  revolving 
chair  and  faced  him: 

"Veil,  sir,  and  vot  is  it  I  shall  haf  the 
bleasure  to  do  mit  you  ?  " 

The  speaker  was  a  man  who  might  be 
anywhere  between  fifty  and  seventy  years 
of  age.  His  thin  hair  and  straggling 
beard,  though  streaked  with  gray,  were 


94      B  ftale  of  awentysfive  Tbours. 


still  dark  ;  and  the  heavy  eyebrows,  which 
came  down  low  over  his  eyes  and  nearly 
met  between  them,  were  as  black  as  jet. 
But  his  face,  as  Paul  could  observe,  even 
in  the  dim  half-light  which  prevailed, 
was  a  perfect  network  of  wrinkles;  and  a 
curious  twitch  which  elevated  one  side  of 
his  upper  lip  at  short  intervals,  after  the 
manner  of  a  snarling  dog,  whether  arising 
from  habit  or  from  infirmity,  added  a 
very  peculiar  character  to  the  man's  ex 
pression. 

By  nature  and  habit,  Stuyvesant  was  a 
quick  observer,  and  he  had  seen  all  that 
there  was  to  see  at  a  glance.  He  drew 
the  only  'remaining  chair  closer  to  the 
desk,  and  settled  himself  in  it,  without 
waiting  for  an  invitation.  It  was  then 
ihat  he  first  noticed  the  convulsive  snarl 
of  the  other's  lip. 

"Mr.  Zalinski,"  he  began,  "I  will  not 
waste  more  of  your  time  by  apologizing 
for  my  presence  than  I  am  compelled  to 
use.  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  know  any 
thing  of  a  Mr.  Charles  Vaughn  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  vos  apout  a  sheck  you 
came?" 


B  Cale  of  £wentE=fiv>e  iboura.      95 

The  old  man  spoke  very  rapidly,  and 
with  a  marked  foreign  accent,  not  exactly 
German,  but  not  unlike  it.  Paul  had 
some  little  difficulty  in  disentangling  his 
meaning  from  the  thick,  guttural  tones, 
with  their  strange  inflection  and  hurried 
enunciation. 

"  I  am  led  to  make  this  visit  owing  to 
a  check  of  mine  which  I  paid  to  Mr. 
Vaughn,  and  which  has  returned  to  me 
with  your  indorsement  and — and  that  of 
others  upon  it." 

"  Vds  the  sheck  nicht  goot?"  asked 
Zalinski  quickly. 

"  Perfectly  good, "  answered  Paul.  "  It 
was  my  own  check.  I  only  wished  to 
know,  as  a  matter  of  curiosity  and  to  sat 
isfy  myself,  how  Charles  Vaughn  hap 
pened  to  pay  it  over  to  you  ?  " 

"Hein!  and  dot  vos  it  all,  eh?     Und 
bray  vill   you  dell  to  me — for  guriosity 
and   zatisfaction,     as  you   zay — ish    Mr. 
Sharley  Fawn  a  relative  mit  you  ?  " 

"Not  exactly,"  replied  Paul.  "At 
present  he  is  only  a  friend,  but  a  very 
dear  one,  and  if  he  is  in  any  trouble 

Zalinski's  lip  twitched  upward  till   it 


96      B  (Tale  of  GvventE=fh>e  "fcours. 

showed  his  yellow  teeth,  as  he  inter 
rupted  : 

''Drupple!  Votdrupple?  Mr.  Sharley 
Fawn  has  peesness  mit  me — peesness, 
verstehtSie?  Shentlemans  who  haf  pees 
ness  mit  me  don't  get  into  no  drupples. " 

"  Not  even  Mr.  James  Burt  ?  " 

It  was  so  palpable  a  chance  for  a  hit 
that  Stuyvesant  could  not  forbear  strik 
ing,  though  he  regretted  his  precipitancy 
a  moment  after.  Mr.  Zalinski's  heavy 
brows  came  down,  and  his  mobile  lip 
went  up,  till  the  rest  of  his  face  seemed 
to  vanish  between  the  two,  and  he  was 
nothing  but  snarl  and  scowl. 

"  Zee  here,  young  man  " — he  rose  from 
his  chair  and  towered  over  Stuyvesant; 
he  was  an  unusually  tall  man,  and  the 
long-skirted  frock-coat  that  he  wore  made 
him  appear  even  taller — "zee  here,  young 
man,  if  Shames  Purt  ish  in  drupples  it 
has  nicht  to  do  mit  me!  Nicht!  Ver- 
steht  Sie?  Un'  if  you  give  shecks  to  Mr. 
Sharley  Fawn  or  Mr.  Sharley  Anypotty, 
you  must  ogspect  that  they  vill  be  bad 
avay  to  oder  beobles.  If  you  vants  to 
know  vy  dot  sheck  vos  to  me  baid,  go  un' 


B  Sale  of  a\ventE=fix>e  flxmrs.       97 

ask  it  of  Mr.  Sharley  Fawn.  I  don't  give 
avay  none  of  my  gustomers'  peesness 

Paul  was  on  his  feet  too.  There  was 
something  threatening  in  the  man's  tone 
and  manner. 

"  Mr.  Vaughn  is  a  very  intimate  friend 
of  mine,  and  I  cannot  understand  how  he 
comes  to  have  business  with  a  person  like 
you  at  all,"  he  said. 

"Hein!  He  ish,  eh?  Und  you  dinks 
you  knows  all  apout  him,  eh?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  was  Paul's  unhesitat 
ing  answer,  though  an  uncomfortable  con 
viction  of  the  unaccountability  of  some 
of  Charley's  recent  proceedings  flashed 
across  him  as  he  spoke. 

"Veil,  I  dinks  you  don't;  und  if  you 
did,  you  vos  a  fool  to  vaste  time  goming 
here  to  bump  me,"  was  the  uncompromis 
ing  reply.  "  Und  I  dinks  dot  I  know  a 
goot  teal  more  about  Mr.  Sharley  Fawn 
as  you  do — und  a  goot  teal  more  as  I  vos 
a-going  to  dell  you.  So!" 

"In  that  case,  I  have  nothing  more  to 
detain  me  here,  and  I  will  wish  you  a 
good-day,"  said  Paul,  turning  toward  the 
door. 


98      B  Cale  ot  Gwent£=fiv>e  fbours. 

"  Good-lay — good-tay!  Und  dry  und 
find  some  peesness  for  yourself,  und 
maype  you  will  letoder  beoble's  peesness 
alone." 

And  the  twitch  of  Mr.  Zalinski's  upper 
lip  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  grin 
of  triumph  as  he  spun  round  to  his  desk 
again,  muttering: 

"  Ikey  vos  right.  No  Mulperry  Street 
apout  him.  He  vos  no  cop;  not'ing  but 
a  tern  fool." 

And,  though  Paul  set  no  special  value 
on  Mr.  Zalinski's  good  opinion,  the  last 
words  of  that  gentleman  rung  unpleas 
antly  in  his  ears  as  he  descended  the 
stairs,  and  for  once  in  his  life  he  felt 
strangely  inclined  to  agree  with  a  decid 
edly  unflattering  estimate  of  himself. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

MR.      PAUL     STUYVESANT     PUTS     TWO     AND 
TWO    TOGETHER. 


trifling  wound  to  his  self- 
love  did  not,  however,  rankle 
very  deeply  in  Paul  Stuyve- 
sant's  breast.  In  the  open 
air,  the  irritation  arising  from  his  unsat 
isfactory  interview  with  Mr.  Michael  Za- 
linski  soon  evaporated,  and  he  ceased  to 
regard  the  old  man  save  as  a  factor  in 
the  problem  he  had  undertaken  to  solve. 
Reviewing  the  situation  calmly,  Stuy- 
vesant  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  had  been  passages  of  some  kind  be 
tween  the  pawnbroker  and  his  future 
brother-in-law  which  neither  party  cared 
to  explain.  He  wished  he  had  been  more 
explicit  with  Charley  when  the  latter  had 
called  on  him  that  morning;  but,  after 
all,  at  that  time  he  had  not  been  suspi 
cious  of  anything;  at  most  he  had  merely 


ioo     B  trale  of  Cwentg«five  Ibours. 

been  puzzled.  Now  he  was  compelled  to 
acknowledge  that  he  had  serious  misgiv 
ings.  Duncan,  a  shrewd,  hard-headed 
lawyer,  who  had  the  best  possible  means 
of  knowing  whereof  he  spoke,  had  called 
Zalinski  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods.  The 
brief  conversation  Paul  had  just  held 
with  Zalinski  had  not  tended  to  raise  the 
old  man  in  his  estimation.  Nor  was  the 
transaction  that  had  been  brought  prom 
inently  under  his  own  notice  an  isolated 
one.  The  "fence"  evidently  knew  Char 
ley  well;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  Stuyvesant 
as  though  Zalinski  had  hinted  that  he 
knew  something  of  young  Vaughn  which 
no  one  else  knew.  Of  course,  this  might 
have  arisen  from  bravado,  or  from  a  mere 
wish  to  be  disagreeable;  but,  somehow, 
Stuyvesant  feared  there  was  more  behind. 
He  had  the  tangible  fact,  vouched  for 
by  Duncan,  that  several  checks  bearing 
Charley's  signature  had  passed  through 
Zalinski's  hands. 

Why  had  this  money  been  paid?  Was 
it  hush-money?  Did  the  pawnbroker 
hold  any  dark  secret  as  a  sword  over  the 
young  man's  head?  And  before  Stuyve- 


&  Cale  of  3went£*ff?e  tbours.     101 

sant  a  vision  of  that  head  arose  up,  always 
erect,  with  smiling  face  and  frank  honest 
eyes.  With  what  dark  mystery  could 
such  a  man  as  Charley  Vaughn  be  mixed 
up?  The  thing  was  melodramatic  and 
impossible. 

And  yet — and  yet — the  doubt  would 
obtrude  itself.  Paul  Stuyvesant  had  read 
too  much  and  observed  too  much  not  to 
be  ready  to  acknowledge  that  because  a 
thing  is  improbable  it  is  by  no  means  im 
possible,  and,  indeed,  that  it  is  the  un 
likely  which  is  most  constantly  occurring. 
In  his  own  mind  he  ran  over  his  morn 
ing's  talk  with  Charley.  The  young  fel 
low  had  been  unlike  himself;  he  had 
been  nervous  and  overwrought;  his  high 
spirits  had  been  palpably  forced.  All 
this  Paul  had  noticed  before  the  incident 
of  the  check  had  made  any  but  the  faint 
est  impression  on  him.  And  then  the 
story  about  the  Bishop  of  Tuxedo!  Kitty 
had  told  him  that  the  bishop  was  on  his 
way  to  San  Francisco;  so  this  was  a 
clumsily  manufactured  excuse.  But 
what,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  had  Mi 
chael  Zalinski  to  do  with  it  all? 


102     B  Gale  of  awentE=five  1>our0. 


Blackmail  was  a  hideous  word,  but 
when  once  it  had  occurred  to  him,  Paul 
could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head.  If 
Charley  had  only  confided  in  him!  But 
then  the  sufferers  from  blackmail  never 
confide  in  anybody.  Like  the  victims  of 
cancer,  the  slaves  of  a  hideous  secret  will 
endure  untold  miseries  to  hide  their  agony 
as  long  as  possible  from  even  the  most 
sympathetic  friends.  Paul  had  studied 
his  Gaboriau  closely,  and  in  theory  he 
knew  a  good  deal  about  blackmailing. 

Then  his  mind  ran  riot  as  to  the  pos 
sible  nature  of  the  secret  hold  which  Za- 
linski  might  have  on  his  friend.  He 
passed  in  review  every  crime  in  the  dec 
alogue,  and  could  find  none  to  fit  Char 
ley's  case  with  any  degree  of  plausibil 
ity.  Still,  the  boy  was  warm-hearted 
and  impulsive,  and  would  go  great 
lengths  to  serve  a  friend.  Perhaps  the 
key  to  the  mystery  might  be  found  by 
searching  in  this  direction.  Stuyvesant 
did  not  attempt  to  call  the  roll  of  Char 
ley's  acquaintance:  each  lived  his  own 
life,  and  each  had  many  friends,  un 
known  to  the  other  even  byname.  Their 


B  Gale  of  Cvvcntg=five  Ibours.     103 

circles  touched  at  one  point  only,  and 
that  point  was  Kitty. 

Poor  Kitty!  How  proud  she  was  of 
her  brother,  and  how  she  loved  him! 
Paul  had  once  or  twice  suffered  from  the 
wayward  temper  of  his  promised  bride, 
and  he  had  solaced  himself  with  the 
thought  that  so  fond  a  sister  could  not 
but  make  an  affectionate  wife.  He  shud 
dered  at  the  thought  of  Kitty's  knowing 
that  her  brother  was  in  any  way  entangled 
with  a  creature  like  Zalinski,  or  of  her 
guessing  that  he  was  in  the  power  of  such 
a  man.  Then  and  there  he  registered  a 
vow  that  he  would  stand  between  her  and 
trouble,  be  the  cost  to  him  what  it  might. 

And  out  of  his  own  mental  attitude  he 
fancied  he  had  evolved  a  clew.  Suppose 
Charley  were  other  than  he  was;  suppose 
he  were  a  gambler,  or  a  felon,  or  worse 
— the  degrees  of  guilt  were  a  little  con 
fused  in  Stuyvesant's  mind — would  not 
he  (Paul)  do  anything — pay  hush-money, 
if  need  be — to  keep  the  knowledge  from 
Kitty  ?  He  felt  that  he  would.  Thus, 
having  imagined  a  case  in  which  he  him 
self  might  be  made  a  ready  victim  of 


104     B  Gale  of  CwentE=fiv>e  "toours. 

blackmail,  it  was  easy  enough  to  believe 
that  Charley  might  have  become  enmeshed 
quite  as  innocently. 

Paul  pitied  the  poor  boy  from  the  bot 
tom  of  his  heart.  He  resolved  to  help 
him  to  the  uttermost.  He  would  invite 
his  confidence,  he  would  suggest  every 
means  that  would  make  the  secret  easier 
in  telling,  and  he  would  pledge  himself 
to  an  inviolable  silence. 

He  resolved  to  go  straight  to  Charley's 
studio.  There  was  a  chance  of  finding 
him  there,  and  having  the  matter  out 
with  him.  Afterward,  if  there  were  time, 
he  could  keep  his  appointment  with  Kitty. 
Yesterday  he  could  have  imagined  no 
duty  for  which  he  would  have  postponed 
such  an  engagement;  but  now  he  recog 
nized  a  prior  necessity.  He  did  not 
forego  the  meeting  without  a  pang,  how 
ever,  and  he  even  looked  at  his  watch,  in 
the  hope  that  he  might  find  time  enough 
for  both  duty  and  pleasure.  It  was  only 
ten  minutes  past  three.  He  would  be  able 
to  see  Charley,  and  to  meet  Kitty  after 
ward.  Late  as  he  had  gone  out  that 
morning,  it  had  been  a  long  day  already: 


B  Sale  of  Gwents=fiv>e  1)our0.     105 

time  measures  itself  less  by  minutes  and 
seconds  than  by  events  and  emotions. 

He  had  boarded  a  Broadway  car  at 
Bleecker  Street,  and,  with  frequent  halts, 
it  was  moving  uptown.  He  would  get 
off  at  Twenty-sixth  Street  and  go  across 
to  Charley's  studio.  So  deeply  had  his 
mind  been  occupied  that  he  had  to  look 
out  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  not  al 
ready  passed  that  point.  He  was  then 
just  opposite  the  Star  Theatre;  and  he 
laughed  to  himself  as  he  found  that  he 
could  not  recall  the  circumstance  of  step 
ping  on  the  car. 

There  was  a  halt  at  Fourteenth  Street, 
and  a  great  influx  of  passengers  broke 
into  the  car  by  both  doors,  mostly  ladies, 
homeward-bound  from  shopping  expedi 
tions.  The  few  vacant  seats  were  quickly 
filled  up,  and  many  were  left  standing. 
Stuyvesant,  always  polite,  rose  and  of 
fered  his  seat  to  a  young  lady  who  was 
clinging  to  a  strap  almost  in  front  of  him. 
With  a  slight  smile  and  a  bow,  she  sat 
down,  murmuring: 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Stuyvesant. " 

Paul   had  all   his  wits  about   him  in  a 


106     a  {Tale  of  avvent£=fiv>e  fboura. 

moment,  and  looked  down  at  the  young 
lady.  Before  he  had  finished  a  few  con 
ventional  words  of  disclaimer  to  her 
thanks,  he  had  taken  a  full  mental  inven 
tory  of  her  charms,  which  were  neither 
few  nor  slight.  She  was  a  tall,  graceful 
girl,  with  an  exceptionally  good  figure, 
dark  brown  eyes,  a  nose  a  little  tip-tilted, 
and  ripe  red  lips,  around  which  a  couple 
of  dimples  were  playing,  in  pursuit  of  a 
faint  smile  that  vanished  as  he  watched 
it.  Her  most  striking  feature  was  her 
hair,  coiled  in  magnificent  masses  over 
her  shapely  head,  silken,  luxuriant,  and 
of  the  color  of  a  withered  beech-leaf. 
She  was  certainly  a  sufficiently  remark 
able-looking  girl,  and  to  be  remembered 
when  once  met;  but  Paul  could  not  iden 
tify  her.  She  seemed  to  know  him;  but 
who  she  might  be  he  did  not  know,  and 
he  could  not  venture  to  surmise. 

"  How  inconveniently  crowded  these 
cars  always  are!  "  he  said,  by  way  of  say 
ing  something,  as  he  looked  down  at  the 
pale,  pretty  face — far  prettier  than  Miss 
Vaughn's,  by  the  way,  although  Stuyve- 
sant  would  never  have  acknowledged  that. 


H  Gale  of  {Twentgsflve  Ibours.      107 

Meanwhile,  he  was  saying  inwardly: 
"  Now,  where  on  earth  have  I  met  that 
girl?  I  seem  to  know  her,  too;  but,  for 
the  life  of  me,  I  can't  find  a  name  or  a 
circumstance  to  connect  her  with." 

"I  suppose  the  company  likes  that," 
she  said,  answering  the  remark  that  met 
her  ears,  but  leaving  Stuyvesant  as  hope 
lessly  as  ever  in  the  dark  with  regard  to 
the  question  that  was  troubling  his  mind. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  awkwardly 
enough ;  and  then  there  was  a  pause 
which  the  conductor,  pursuing  fares 
under  difficulties,  enlivened  by  treading 
squarely  on  Stuyvesant's  foot. 

"  Have  you  been  in  New  York  ever 
since?"  inquired  the  young  lady,  when 
this  incident  was  concluded.  "I  haven't 
seen  you." 

Paul  did  not  quite  know  how  to  answer. 
So  far  as  he  knew,  the  uncertain  interval 
alluded  to  as  "  ever  since"  might  have 
been  measured  by  years  or  by  hours. 
However,  he  had  to  say  something. 

"Oh,  yes,  ever  since,"  he  answered 
feebly. 

There  are  few  of  the  minor  embarrass- 


108     B  Gale  of  Gwentgsfive  tours. 

ments  of  life  at  all  comparable  with  that 
of  being  unexpectedly  addressed  by  some 
one  who  knows  you,  but  whom  you  do  not 
know  and  whom  you  are  fully  conscious 
you  ought  to  know;  nor  are  the  difficul 
ties  of  the  position  lessened  when  the 
person  in  question  is  a  young  and  pretty 
girl. 

"  If  I  was  sure  I  had  not  seen  her  for 
years,"  thought  Paul,  "I  could  remark 
how  much  she  is  grown,  for  I  don't  be 
lieve  she  can  be  twenty;  but,  as  I  may 
have  met  her  last  week,  I  can't  risk 
that." 

But  a  happy  inspiration  arose  out  of 
the  reflection. 

"  How  well  you  are  looking!  " 

"Thank  you.  So  every  one  tells  me. 

Kitty  Vaughn  says Oh,  by  the  way, 

have  you  seen  Kitty  lately?" 

"I  see  Miss  Vaughn  almost  every  day, " 
answered  Stuyvesant  somewhat  stiffly,  not 
altogether  pleased  that  this  fair  incognita 
chose  to  thread  the  mazes  of  his  most 
sacred  emotions  unrecognized. 

"Of  course  you  do;  how  stupid  of  me! 
Well,  give  her  my  love,  please,  and  tell 


B  Cale  of  Cwentgsfive  fxwrs.     109 

her  I  think  it's,  real  mean  of  her  never  to 
come  to  see.  me,  often  as,  she  has  prom 
ised. " 

"  Perhaps  she  has  forgotten  your  ad 
dress,"  hazarded  Paul.  If  he  could  pin 
this  unsubstantial  acquaintance  down  to 
some  definite  locality,  perhaps  he  might 
find  a  name  for  her.  But  he  was  baffled. 

"Nonsense!  that's  altogether  too  thin! 
She  has  my  address  right  enough;  but 
she's  afraid  of  half  an  hour  on  the  train — 
that's  all  that  keeps  her  away." 

So  the  young  lady  without  a  name  lived 
outside  New  York — half  an  hour  by  train. 

Paul  was  not  much  wiser.  The  local 
ity  thus  vaguely  indicated  might  be  any 
one  of  a  dozen  sylvan  retreats  in  New 
Jersey  or  on  Long  Island;  or  it  might  be 
on  one  of  the  several  roads  running  out 
of  the  Grand  Central  station. 

"You  won't  forget?  You'll  be  sure  to 
tell  her?"  pursued  the  young  lady. 

"  I  won't  forget,"  answered  Paul,  pledg 
ing,  himself  to  the  possible  as  embodied 
in  the  first  part  of  her  sentence,  and  ig 
noring  the  impossible  as  embodied  in  the 
last. 


no     8  Cale  of  CwentB*five 


"Are  you  going  uptown?"  he  asked, 
when  the  conversation  had  languished  so 
long  that  the  pause  began  to  be  awkward. 

"  As  far  as  Forty-second  Street,  of 
course,"  she  answered,  opening  her  brown 
eyes.  "I've  spent  all  my  money,  and 
now  I'm  going  home  again,  as  a  good 
little  girl  should  do." 

Paul  laughed  a  little,  as  in  duty  bound. 

Suddenly  the  young  lady  spoke  again, 
with  a  quickness  that  seemed  bred  of 
apprehension: 

"You're  not  going  to  the  depot, 
surely?" 

He  laughed  again,  this  time  with  gen 
uine  amusement  at  her  evident  disquie 
tude. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  he  said.  "Were  you 
afraid  I  was?  " 

She  colored  a  little. 

"How  absurd!  Of  course  not;  but  — 
I  —  it  seemed  such  an  odd  time  for  a  gen 
tleman  to  be  going  out  of  town." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  answered. 
"  Any  day  is  a  good  day  for  that,  if  there 
is  a  stronger  attraction  in  the  country 
than  in  the  city  —  which  is  not  my  case." 


B  Gale  of  G\ventE=fh>e  fxmrs.     m 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  be 
gan  to  congratulate  himself  on  having  a 
little  puzzled  this  girl,  who  had  puzzled 
him  so  much.  He  went  on: 

"  I  am  only  going  as  far  as  Twenty-sixth 
Street,  and  we're  almost  there.  lam  go 
ing  to  call  on  a  Mr.  Vaughn,  the  brother 
of  the  Miss  Vaughn  we  were  speaking  of." 

"Are  you  going  to  his  studio?"  she 
asked,  with  a  quick  anxiety  which  mysti 
fied  Paul  more  than  ever.  This  unac 
countable  girl  knew  Charley  too. 

"Certainly,  to  his  studio,"  he  answered. 
"  He  is  an  artist,  you  know." 

"Of  course  I  know  that!  "  she  replied, 
somewhat  impatiently.  "  But  are  you  go 
ing  by  appointment — or — I  mean,  does 
he  expect  you  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Stuy- 
vesant,  more  mystified  than  ever.  "  I  am 
just  going  to  drop  in  on  chance.  Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied  inconse- 
quently,  but  with  an  obvious  look  of  re 
lief;  and  then  a  mischievous  smile  set 
the  dimples  playing  again  round  the  cor 
ners  of  her  mouth. 


112     a  Cale  of  awentgsffve 


"Of  all  the  riddles!"  thought  Paul; 
"but  I  haven't  time  to  solve  it.  Here's 
Twenty-sixth  Street."  —  "I'll  say  good- 
by,"  he  added  aloud,  "and  I  hope  you 
won't  find  your  half-hour  in  the  train 
tedious." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  I  shan't,  "she  said,  with 
a  bright  laugh,  at  the  same  time  frankly 
extending  her  hand;  "and  if  you  find  Mr. 
Vaughn  at  home,  I  hope  you  will  have  an 
immensely  pleasant  call." 

And  her  merriment,  as  she  spoke,  took 
on  a  mischievous  tone. 

Paul  raised  his  hat  and  left  the  car. 

"Confound  the  girl!"  he  thought, 
"she's  laughing  at  me,  and  I  can't  blame 
her  for  it;  but  she  was  really  scared  when 
she  began  to  believe  that  I  was  going  to 
the  station.  If  I  had  nothing  better  to 
do,  I'd  go  there  just  for  spite." 

But  Stuyvesant  had  something  better 
to  do.  The  temporary  diversion  afforded 
by  this  chance  meeting  soon  faded  out  of 
his  thoughts  when  he  turned  eastward  and 
walked  rapidly  toward  "  The  Rubens,"  as 
the  building  was  called  in  which  Charley 
Vaughn  had  his  studio. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

MR.    PAUL    STUYVESANT    INVADES   "  THE 
RUBENS." 

>N  "The  Rubens"  one  studio 
resembles  another,  and  to  de 
scribe  one  is  to  describe  all. 
It  is  a  room  of  about  twenty 
feet  square.  Opposite  the  door  is  the 
broad  window  which  helps  to  give  the  ex 
terior  of  the  building  its  architectural 
peculiarity.  Opposite  the  window  is  a 
gallery  eight  or  nine  feet  wide,  with  a 
balustrade  which  makes  it  look  like  a 
balcony.  Sometimes  the  gallery  is  a 
dressing-room  for  the  model,  and  a  store 
house  of  odds  and  ends  of  one  kind  or  an 
other,  studio-properties,  lay-figures,  stud 
ies,  sketches,  broken  frames,  and  what 
not,  in  a  disorder  problematically  pictu 
resque  and  indubitably  dirty. 

Paul  mounted  the  stairs:  he  was  an  ac 
customed    visitor,    and    had    long    since 


114     a  Gale  of  GwentB=fh>e  fjours. 

ceased  to  grumble  at  the  ascent.  Follow 
ing  the  mute  invitation  of  a  painted 
hand,  he  knocked  at  Charley's  door.  It 
was  opened  by  a  man  of  about  fifty — a 
man  with  the  typical  face  of  the  comic 
caricature  of  Irishmen,  but  preternatu- 
rally  grave.  This  face  was  acidulated  by 
a  certain  droop  of  the  corners  of  the 
mouth  and  a  general  twist  of  the  features 
into  an  almost  vindictive  expression  of 
sourness. 

"Well,  Barney,  how  are  you?" 

The  old  man  was  a  recognized  char 
acter  all  over  the  studio-building,  and 
Stuyvesant  knew  him  well  as  Charley's 
particular  retainer. 

"Bad,  sor.  What  wid  the  lumbago  in 
the  small  o'  me  back,  and  the  rheumatics 
in  me  left  shoulder,  sorra  wink  o'  sleep 
do  I  get  night  nor  day." 

"That's  very  bad,  Barney,"  answered 
Paul,  too  well  acquainted  with  the  old 
fellow's  habitual  querulousness  to  humor 
it  by  further  sympathy.  "  Is  Mr.  Vaughn 
in?" 

"  Indade  an"  I  might  have  known  that 
it  wasn't  to  ax  after  my  health  ye've  come 


B  Cale  of  £wentB*five  fjours.      115 

trapezin'  up  all  them  stairs,"  Barney  re 
plied  with  an  injured  air. 

"You  certainly  might,"  said  Paul, 
hardly  able  to  repress  a  smile  at  the  dis 
contented  look  on  the  face  of  the  old 
Irishman.  "  I  came  to  see  Mr.  Vaughn. 
Is  he  in?" 

"  Indade  an'  he's  not,'-'  began  Barney. 
By  this  time  Stuyvesant  had  passed  him 
and  entered  the  studio.  "  Oh,  that's 
right.  Make  a  liar  o'  me!  What's  the 
good  of  yer  axin'  me  questions,  if  ye're 
not  goin'  to  believe  me  whin  I  tell  ye?" 
expostulated  Barney,  following  him  into 
the  room.  "  But  sarch,  sarch,  an'  wel 
come.  Sure  there's  the  table  he  might 
be  under — to  say  nothin'  of  the  gallery, 
that  'ud  hide  a  dozen  like  him.  Sarch, 
if  ye  want  to.  Don't  be  afeared  of  hurt- 
in'  my  feelin's;  sure  I'm  used  to  it." 

"  I  don't  doubt  you  at  all,  Barney;  but 
I  am  very  anxious  to  see  Mr.  Vaughn, 
and,  as  I  have  a  few  minutes  to  spare,  I'll 
wait,  on  the  chance  of  his  coming  in." 

And  Stuyvesant  pushed  a  richly-em 
broidered  robe  from  the  most  comfortable 
chair  in  the  room,  and  sat  down. 


116     a  Gale  of  a\vents=fiv>e  t>our0. 

Barney  picked  up  the  mass  of  drapery 
and  grumbled  back  with  it  to  the  recess 
under  the  gallery. 

"That's  right,"  he  said;  "make  hay 
over  the  whole  place.  Divil  a  thing  have 
I  to  do  but  to  follow  the  likes  of  ye  round 
an'  clean  up  yer  messes,  wid  the  lumbago 
in  the  small  o'  me  back." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  be  in  soon  ?"  called 
Paul,  when  the  muttering  began  to  subside. 

"  Arrah,  what  time  have  I  to  think, 
whin  me  heart's  broke  wid  work  ?  Maybe 
he  will  an'  maybe  he  won't;  an'  that's 
the  nearest  I  can  come  to  it,  for  there's 
no  dipindence  out  of  what  he  says  at  all, 
at  all." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ? "  demanded 
Stuyvesant  impatiently. 

He  knew  that  the  old  man  was  a  good 
servant,  honest,  faithful,  and  industrious, 
and  that  his  one  fault  was  across-grained 
temper,  and  yet  he  had  often  wondered 
how  Charley  had  endured  him  so  long. 

"What  did  he  say,  is  it?"  said  Barney. 
"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  that;  an'  if  ye  believe 
him,  ye've  a  better  chance  of  heaven  nor 
I  have,  if  faith'll  save  ye." 


a  Gale  of  awentgsffve  t>ours.     in 

Paul  looked  at  the  old  man  in  surprise. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  was  telling  the 
truth  ?" 

"I  don't  think  any  man's  tellin'  the 
truth  until  I  see  it  proved;  an'  thin  I 
doubt  it,"  was  the  uncompromising  re 
joinder. 

"Faith  will  never  save  you,  Barney; 
that's  a  fact,"  laughed  Paul.  "  Now  tell 
me,  without  any  more  beating  about  the 
bush,  when  Mr.  Vaughn  expected  to  re 
turn.  " 

"  He  .$•#/</ he'd  be  back  to-night." 

"To-night!  What  did  he  mean  by 
that  ?"  Paul  inquired  at  once. 

The  utter  unreasonableness  of  expect 
ing  him  to  attach  a  meaning  to  any  man's 
words  was  plainly  set  forth  on  Barney's 
expressive  features;  but  he  contented 
himself  with  a  grunt.  Stuyvesant  saw 
the  futility  of  expecting  help  from  that 
quarter;  and  so,  without  waiting  for  a 
definite  reply,  he  continued: 
-"It  is  very  provoking.  I  wanted  to 

see   him   particularly,    and By    Jove! 

it's  a  quarter  before  four  now, "  he  added, 
glancing  at  his  watch. 


118     a  Cale  of  CwentBsfive  flours. 


"Want'll  be  yer  master,  I'm  thinkin',1' 
muttered  Barney  below  his  breath. 
"Well,  I'm  goin'  home,  "he  added  aloud; 
"  there's  no  call  for  me  to  be  waitin'  here 
till  dark.  If  he  comes  he  comes,  an'  if 
he  don't  come  he  stays  away,  an'  that's 
all  there  is  to  it." 

''  Does  Mr.  Vaughn  spend  much  of  his 
time  here  now?"  asked  Paul,  partly  im 
pelled  by  the  wish  to  say  something,  and 
partly  on  the  alert  to  gain  any  possible 
information  which  might  have  a  bearing 
on  the  mysterious  business  that  had  taken 
him  there. 

Barney  was  putting  on  his  overcoat, 
and  enveloping  his  neck  in  many  folds  of 
a  long  knitted  comforter,  which  somehow 
had  the  effect  of  accentuating  his  native 
ugliness  to  an  almost  incredible  degree. 

"No!  "  he  answered,  with  an  inflection 
of  supreme  contempt.     "  He  never  does 
be  here.      He's  always  off  gallivantin'." 
i      The  old  man  moved  toward  the  door, 
and  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  latch. 

"If  Mr.  Charley  comes  in  while  ye're 
waitin'  —  which  he  won't  —  will  ye  show 
him  thim  letters  an'  things  on  the  table 


H  £ale  of  ZTwentg*fix>e  fjours.     no 


forninst  ye?  They  came  this  mornin','' 
he  said. 

He  turned  the  handle  and  hobbled  out 
on  the  landing,  his  querulous  voice  con 
tinuing  awhile,  till  it  was  abruptly  cut 
off  by  the  closing  of  the  door. 

So  Charley  spent  little  time  in  his 
studio,  thought  Stuyvesant.  His  work 
would  seem  to  have  lost  its  charm  for 
him,  who  was  once,  as  Paul  well  remem 
bered,  earnest,  eager,  and  enthusiastic: 
all  this  had  changed  with  the  other 
changes  that  had  come  upon  him.  His 
appetite  was  poor,  too  —  so  Stuyvesant 
had  gathered  from  a  remark  of  Barney's; 
and  a  trouble  or  preoccupation  which 
will  affect  the  appetite  of  a  man  of  Char 
ley's  age  must  be  serious  indeed.  Stuy 
vesant  set  himself  to  think:  occupied  as 
he  had  been  lately  with  Kitty,  he  had 
seen  less  of  her  brother.  What  the  date 
was  when  these  alterations  in  his  friend 
had  first  begun  to  force  themselves  on  his 
notice,  Stuyvesant  could  not  say.  It  was 
only  this  very  morning  that  something 
tangible  had  brought  the  matter  prom 
inently  before  him.  He  was  conscious, 


120     B  Gale  of  Gwents=fiv>e  t>ours. 

now  that  he  looked  back,  of  a  hundred 
trifles,  unnoticed  at  the  time,  which 
seemed  to  indicate  a  degree  of  preoccu 
pation  in  the  young  artist. 

He  stopped  before  the  table  on  which 
lay  the  two  or  three  letters  and  postal- 
card  to  which  Barney  had  drawn  his  at 
tention  before  going  out.  His  eye  fell  on 
them  mechanically.  He  started  back 
with  an  exclamation,  and  raised  his  arm 
with  the  gesture  with  which  a  man  depre 
cates  or  seeks  to  ward  off  an  impending 
blow. 

Exactly  on  the  top  of  the  little  pile  of 
mail-matter  lay  a  postal-card,  with  the 
address  downward.  The  face  of  the  card, 
containing  less  than  two  lines,  written 
in  a  bold  mercantile  hand,  lay  directly 
under  the  eyes  of  the  visitor.  Stuyvesant 
was  not  conscious  of  reading  these  two 
lines,  but  unwittingly  he  had  mastered 
their  meaning  at  a  glance.  It  was  as 
though  the  words  leaped  out  at  him  from 
the  paper,  and  struck  him  with  a  force 
purely  physical. 

These  were  the  words  on  the  postal- 
card: 


a  Gale  of  CwentB*five  "fcours.     121 

"  Look  in  and  see  me  at  your  earliest  con- 
^enience.  M.  Zalinski." 

Stuyvesant  fairly  staggered.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  though  proof  was  accumulating 
on  proof.  This  was  the  embodiment  of 
the  hideous  shadow  that  was  darkening 
over  Charley's  life.  There  was  the  hate 
ful  name  again ;  and  at  every  step  he  took 
he  found  it  always  linked  with  that  of 
Vaughn;  and  Vaughn  was  Kitty's  name, 
too. 

He  took  up  the  card.  It  had  nothing 
more  to  tell.  On  the  back  were  Charley's 
name  and  address;  on  the  face  was  the 
line  that  had  already  burned  itself  into 
Paul's  brain.  It  had  done  its  mission; 
it  had  dealt  its  crushing  blow;  and  it  now 
relapsed  into  seeming  insignificance — a 
common,  every-day  postal-card. 

The  postmark  told  him  it  had  been 
mailed  that  morning.  Therefore,  when 
Zalinski  had  refused  to  tell  him  anything 
about  Charley  or  their  relations  to  eacn 
other,  he  had  already  written  to  compel 
his  attendance  at  that  den  in  Bleecker 
Street.  To  compel  ?  Yes,  to  compel ; 


122     a  Cale  of  £wentg=fi\?e  Ibours. 

for,  though  the  note  was  politely  worded, 
in  Paul's  eyes  it  breathed  all  the  author 
ity  of  an  imperious  mandate. 

There  came  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door. 

Paul  started,  almost  guiltify,  and 
dropped  the  card  among  the  other  letters. 
This  action,  like  his  action  in  reading  it, 
was  purely  mechanical.  Indeed,  he  was 
so  abstracted  that  it  required  a  repetition 
of  the  summons  to  enable  him  to  recall  his 
wandering  thoughts  and  bid  the  visitor  to 
enter. 

A  young  fellow,  not  more  than  sixteen 
or  seventeen  years  of  age,  opened  the 
door  and  came  in.  His  face  was  preter- 
naturally  sharp,  and  he  had  black  eyes 
and  a  swarthy  complexion.  He  was 
shabbily  dressed;  but  his  clothing  was 
by  no  means  ragged  or  poverty-stricken. 
His  long  overcoat,  though  shiny  with 
wear  and  faded  into  two  or  three  different 
colors,  was  a  comfortable  and  seasonable 
garment  enough  for  the  winter.  He 
wore  an  imitation  sealskin  cap,  which  he 
pulled  off  as  he  entered. 

"Beg  pardon,  bister,"  he  began,  speak 
ing  as  if  he  were  suffering  from  a  bad  cold 


B  Cale  of  Gwentgsfive  fjours.     123 

in  the  head,  "was  you  down  to  Bister 
Zalinski's  to-day? " 

Zalinski  again !  Was  he  about  to  learn 
something  at  last?  As  this  hope  flashed 
into  his  heart,  Stuyvesant  was  obliged  to 
remain  silent  a  moment  before  he  could 
command  his  voice  to  reply. 

"Yes;  I  was  there  this  afternoon." 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  said  the  boy; 
"  'cos  he  expected  you,  and  bade  sure  you 
would  cub  sub  tide  to-day.  He  told  you 
about  the  frabes,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  nothing  at  all,"  Paul  an 
swered.  "I  couldn't  get  any  satisfaction 
from  him." 

"That's  odd,  too,"  said  the  other; 
"  'cos  he  wanted  you  particular  to  look 
in,  and  wrote  you  on  purpose." 

Paul  perceived  that  the  boy  took  him 
for  Charley  Vaughn,  of  whose  appearance 
he  was  seemingly  ignorant.  Should  he 
undeceive  the  messenger?  It  did  not 
take  him  the  tenth  part  of  a  second  to 
make  up  his  mind  in  the  negative.  In 
Charley's  own  interests,  Stuyvesant  would 
learn  what  he  could. 

These    reflections  passed    through   his 


124     a  Cale  of  tTwentEsfive  Ibours. 


mind  like  lightning;  and,  though  the 
boy  continued  his  sentence  with  scarcely 
a  perceptible  break,  he  had  already  de 
cided. 

"However,"  proceeded  the  messenger, 
"  vot  he  told  me  to  tell  you  was  this.  He 
has  two  frabes  he'd  like  you  to  look  at, 
both  forty  by  twenty-four.  One's  bod- 
ern,  but  very  handsob  ;  and  t'other's  the 
regular  antique." 

"All  right,"  said  Paul,  and  as  he  was 
speaking  he  was  trying  to  think  more 
quickly  than  he  had  ever  thought  in  his 
life  before.  Was  it  possible  that  Char 
ley's  visits  to  Bleecker  Street  were  only 
in  search  of  cheap  picture-frames?  Did 
Zalinski  deal  in  such  articles?  That  was 
likely  enough.  Pawnbrokers,  so  he  had 
heard,  sold  anything  and  everything.  If 
this  were  the  innocent  explanation  of  all 
the  strange  circumstances,  he  had  acted 
in  his  suspicion  most  unwarrantably. 
What  right  had  he  to  question  Zalinski, 
and  how  could  he  justify  to  himself  his 
present  assumption  of  Charley's  identity? 

But  there  were  more  suspicious  circum 
stances  in  the  background  still  unac- 


{Tale  of  CwentEsfive  Ibours.     125 


counted  for,  as  he  knew,  and  he  felt  that 
he  must  not  jump  at  conclusions  too 
hastily. 

"That's  the  dibensions  you  gabe,  isn't 
it?"  the  boy  queried,  producing  a  scrap 
of  paper  from  his  pocket. 

Paul  took  it  from  him. 

"All  right,  then,  "  the  boy  continued. 
"  Bister  Zalinski  has  two  you  can  see  any 
time  you  call.  They're  just  the  size  for 
you.  Either  of  them  will  do  for  the  Bary 
Bagdalen." 

And  before  Paul  could  ask  another 
question  the  messenger  of  Zalinski  was 
gone. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

MR.     PAUL    STUYVESANT     MAKES    A    DISCOV 
ERY. 

TUYVESANT  was  left  alone 
with  a  fresh  dread  at  his 
heart.  "Handsome  frame; 
40x24;  to  suit  an  old  mas 
ter,"  he  read.  He  simply  nodded.  His 
thoughts  were  too  busy.  He  could  not 
find  words.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sud 
den  fear  so  portentous,  so  fraught  with 
terrible  possibilities,  so  inexpressibly  hid 
eous,  that  he  shrank  from  analyzing  it. 

The  Mary  Magdalen  was  the  great 
picture,  the  theft  of  which  had  come  to 
light  only  the  previous  day.  And  the 
shadowy,  unexplained  connection  be 
tween  two  such  dissimilar  people  as 
Zalinski  and  Paul's  future  brother-in- 
law  took  shape  and  substance  over  a  com 
mon  point — the  missing  picture! 

Stuyvesant    was   fairly    stunned.       All 


Gale  of  £wentB=five  f>ours.     127 


that  he  had  feared,  all  that  his  most 
gloomy  previsions  had  hinted  at,  was  as 
nothing  to  this. 

"  Poor  Kitty  !"  he  murmured.  A  vague, 
boundless  pity  for  the  woman  he  loved 
filled  his  mind.  In  fancy  he  saw  the 
sunny  head  bowed  down,  the  frank,  (ear 
less  eyes  abashed  to  the  earth,  in  the 
shadow  of  her  brother's  shame.  He 
dared  not  let  his  thoughts  stray  farther 
in  this  direction.  If  ever  he  needed  a 
clear  brain  to  plan,  a  steady  hand  to  act, 
he  needed  them  now;  and  the  vision  of 
Kitty  he  had  conjured  up  unmanned  him. 

The  Mary  Magdalen  !  The  whole  story 
of  its  curious  adventures,  its  loss  and  its 
recovery,  as  it  had  been  recounted  in  the 
newspapers  of  the  day  —  partly  authentic, 
partly  hypothetical  —  came  back  to  him. 
And  Charley  had  been  one  of  the  first  to 
light  upon  it  in  the  shop  of  an  obscure 
Paris  picture-dealer.  The  young  painter 
had  discussed  the  discovery  of  the  picture 
with  him  that  very  morning.  He  had 
asked  Charley  when  he  had  seen  the  pict 
ure  last,  and  the  question  had  remained 
unanswered.  Stuyvesant  remembered  too 


128     a  Gale  of  Cwentgsfive  fjours. 

how  ardent  a  longing  the  boy  had  ex 
pressed  to  be  the  owner  of  the  painting. 
Could  it  be,  as  Duncan  had  said,  that  a 
man  of  artistic  temperament  might  covet 
a  masterpiece  to  such  a  degree  that  he 
would  steal  it,  though  he  could  never  reap 
any  satisfaction  from  his  crime  other  than 
a  guilty  enjoyment  by  stealth?  He  rec 
ollected  that  at  the  news  of  the  theft 
Charley  had  not  shown  the  indignation 
which  he  had  expected.  The  artist  had 
contented  himself,  as  far  as  Paul's  recol 
lection  served,  with  a  slight  expression 
of  surprise  that  it  had  not  been  found  out 
before. 

And  Charley  had  a  Mary  Magdalen 
in  his  possession !  Zalinski's  messenger 
had  said  as  much.  Of  course,  there  were 
many  Mary  Magdalens  in  existence;  but 
here  were  the  dimensions  of  the  frame, 
pencilled  in  Charley's  own  writing. 
There  was  a  copy  of  the  Gotham  Gazette 
upon  the  table.  Evidently  Charley  had 
not  taken  time  to  open  the  paper  before 
going  out  that  morning.  Stuyvesant 
hastily  unfolded  the  sheet,  and  compared 
the  cabled  figures  which  gave  the  pict- 


B  Cale  of  Cwentg*ffve  fjours.     120 

ure's  dimensions  with  the  memorandum 
in  his  hand.  They  were  identical.  The 
measurement  of  the  missing  Titian  was 
forty  inches  by  twenty-four. 

Although  doubt  seemed  no  longer  pos 
sible,  Paul  still  hoped  against  hope.  He 
asked  himself  what  opportunity  Charley 
had  had  to  take  the  picture.  Two 
months  and  more  had  elapsed  since  the 
artist's  return  from  Paris.  The  compari 
son  of  dates  was  of  little  value  here, 
since  Mr.  Sargent  had  been  absent  from 
Paris  nearly  seven  months,  and  the  pict 
ure  had  not  been  missed  until  his  return. 
Any  day  or  any  night  during  seven 
months  might  have  been  the  day  or  night 
when  the  picture  was  cut  from  its  frame. 
Charley  had  been  in  Paris,  during  Sam 
Sargent's  absence,  for  nearly  three 
months. 

But  it  was  absurd  to  believe  that  the 
boy  could  have  accomplished  such  a  feat 
alone  and  unassisted.  Stay!  Was  it  so 
absurd?  Charley  had  admitted,  or  he 
had  dropped  hints  that  amounted  to  an 
admission,  that  he  had  seen  the  Mary 
Magdalen  since  its  owner  had  seen  it;  he 


130     a  Gale  of  awentB*fh?e  fxwrs. 

had  remarked  that  locked-up  apartments 
were  not  impregnable,  or  words  to  that 
effect.  Paul  remembered  this  part  of  the 
conversation  but  vaguely.  In  any  case 
it  was  not  necessary  to  assume  that  the 
young  man  had  acted  alone.  There  was 
a  factor  in  the  case  which  Paul  never 
forgot  for  an  instant.  There  was  M. 
Zalinski. 

This  man  was  "  notoriously  crooked," 
so  Duncan  had  told  him.  He  was  a  re 
ceiver  of  stolen  goods;  quite  likely  he 
was  in  communication  with  thieves  in  all 
the  capitals  of  the  world.  Stuyvesant 
had  no  idea  of  the  possible  ramifications 
of  a  business  like  Zalinski's,  but  he 
thought  it  probable  they  were  exten 
sive.  If  the  Jew  had  any  part  in  the  re 
moval  of  the  picture,  or  if  he  had  any 
knowledge  of  its  removal,  there  was  at 
once  an  easy  and  a  terrible  explanation 
of  the  hold  he  had  over  the  artist — black 
mail! 

So  Stuyvesant's  suspicions  had  not  mis 
led  him,  after  all!  If  the  old  "  fence  " 
were  in  possession  of  any  such  secret 
about  a  young  man  in  Vaughn's  position, 


a  Gale  of  awentB*fiv>e  "fcours.     131 

he  was  assured  of  a  revenue  to  be  meas 
ured  only  by  the  latter's  fortune  and 
possible  professional  earnings.  As  it 
happened,  the  check  which  Paul  had 
given  to  Charley,  and  which  had  been 
passed  over  to  Zalinski — the  check  which 
had  first  started  him  on  the  trail  of  this 
hideous  secret — was  for  a  very  small  sum. 
But  it  had  not  been  an  isolated  transac 
tion.  Duncan  had  spoken  of  two  other 
checks  bearing  Vaughn's  signature  which 
had  reached  him  from  the  "fence;"  Stuy- 
vesant  had  not  thought  to  inquire  as  to 
their  amount,  but  that  mattered  little. 
If  three  of  Charley's  checks  had  been 
paid  by  Zalinski  to  Duncan,  dozens  might 
have  passed  through  the  same  hands  into 
other  channels. 

But  to  think  that  a  young  man  of  such 
position  and  surroundings,  to  think  that 
Kitty's  brother  could  ever  be  guilty  of 
such  a  crime  as  robbery,  was  almost  im 
possible.  Perhaps,  though  he  had  always 
been  inclined  to  scoff  at  the  plea,  there 
might  be  reason  to  suggest  kleptomania. 
If  Charley  stole  that  picture,  he  must  be 
mad — if  ever  a  man  was. 


132     a  aale  of  ZEw>entB*fiv>e  Douce. 

If  he  stole  it?  Logically,  the  doubt 
seemed  hardly  tenable;  and  yet  Paul 
clung  to  it.  In  the  course  of  his  reading 
in  preparation  for  his  great  work,  he  had 
seen  many  an  apparently  perfect  case, 
perfect  in  the  chain  of  circumstances 
that  constituted  the  evidence,  fall  to 
pieces  under  the  stronger  light  of  direct 
proof.  Perhaps  this  case  would  so  crum 
ble  away.  Perhaps  Charley  could  explain 
all  these  seemingly  inexplicable  circum 
stances. 

If  he  could  but  see  him! 

He  paced  nervously  to  and  fro.  Per 
haps  Charley  would  not  come;  certainly 
he  would  not  come  till  late.  Through 
the  mist  of  his  general  surliness,  Barney's 
opinion  on  that  point  had  stood  out  in 
bold  relief,  and  Stuyvesant  was  inclined 
to  agree  with  him.  At  any  rate,  if  he 
stayed  here  any  longer  alone  he  felt  as  if 
he  should  go  mad  himself.  He  glanced 
at  his  watch.  He  was  still  in  time  to 
keep  his  appointment  with  Kitty.  He 
would  go. 

Under  the  flaring  gas-jet  which  lighted 
the  room  now  that  night  was  settling 


B  Gate  of  CwentE=ffv>e  tbours.     133 


down  on  the  city,  there  was  a  table  where 
Charley  kept  pen  and  ink  and  paper. 

Stuyvesant  set  his  chair  down  before 
this,  and  wrote  a  note  hastily.  Then  he 
read  it  over: 

"  DEAR  CHARLEY:  I  want  to  see  you 
particularly.  I  have  waited  for  you  here 
as  long  as  I  can.  I  am  going  out  now, 
but  shall  be  back  in  my  rooms  by  six 
o'clock.  Come  over  there  at  once  when 
you  get  back.  I  shall  not  stir  till  I  have 
seen  you,  so  you  can  be  sure  of  finding 
me  in.  Don't  fail;  this  is  most  impor 
tant. 

"  Yours, 

"  PAUL  STUYVESANT. 
"January  3d,  4:15  P.M." 

He  placed  the  note  conspicuously  on 
the  table,  where  it  would  not  fail  to  catch 
the  eye  of  any  one  entering  the  room. 
Then  he  turned  to  go. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him.  Sup 
posing  Charley  to  be  the  guilty  possessor 
of  the  picture,  where  would  he  keep  it? 
It  was  a  thing  to  be  guarded  jealously 
from  any  mortal  eye,  and  nowhere  else 


134     a  Gale  of  CwentB=fiv>e  txwrs. 

could  the  young  artist  rqckon  on  the  same 
privacy  as  he  could  in  his  own  studio. 

Of  course,  it  might  be  at  Zalinski's, 
but  the  idea  that  the  young  fellow  would 
steal  the  picture  to  sell  again  was  not  to 
be  entertained  for  a  moment.  No,  if  he 
had  it  at  all,  he  would  keep  it  somewhere 
at  hand,  so  that  he  could  look  at  it  occa 
sionally,  and  take  such  enjoyment  of  his 
surreptitious  treasure  as  his  conscience 
would  permit  him. 

The  gallery  seemed  the  most  promis 
ing  place  of  concealment,  and  Paul  ac 
cordingly  mounted  the  steps.  One  end 
was  curtained  off  to  serve  as  a  model's 
dressing-room;  but  a  glance  behind  the 
hangings  showed  Paul  that  it  contained 
nothing  in  the  least  resembling  what  he 
sought.  A  pile  of  dusty  canvases  occu 
pied  one  corner.  Paul  turned  them  over 
one  by  one.  They  were  some  of  Char 
ley's  earlier  and  cruder  efforts — the 
sketches  he  had  done  before  he  had  gone 
abroad,  stored  during  his  absence,  and 
taken  back,  among  other  furniture  and 
litter,  when  he  returned  and  rented  this 
studio.  Stuyvesant  remembered  most  of 


B  Cale  ot  awentB=fiv>e  f)ours.     135 

them  well,  and  smiled  sadly  as  he  thought 
of  the  boyish  triumph  with  which  Char 
ley  used  to  refute  the  uninformed  criti 
cisms  which  Paul  had  offered,  reluctantly 
enough,  and  under  strong  pressure  from 
the  artist. 

There  was  nothing  to  detain  him  there, 
and  he  descended. 

This  time  he  went  under  the  gallery, 
and  examined  the  various  hangings  that 
concealed  Charley's  finished  and  unsold 
works.  As  he  raised  the  curtain  which 
hid  the  corner  farthest  from  the  door,  the 
gaslight  fell  upon  a  painting  from  which 
he  reeled  back  with  a  cry  of  actual  pain. 
Hope  itself  could  go  no  farther  in  the 
face  of  such  a  proof.  Before  his  eyes 
leaned  the  lost  picture — Titian's  Mary 
Magdalen  in  all  the  glory  of  its  matchless 
beauty ! 

The  canvas  was  nailed  to  a  stretcher;  it 
was  unframed,  and  the  ragged  edges  bore 
plain  marks  of  the  hasty  knife  of  the 
spoiler.  Paul  was  no  art-critic — he  was 
not  even  a  connoisseur;  but  he  could  not 
doubt  the  genuineness  of  the  picture  be 
fore  him.  It  had  the  rich,  mellow  tone 


136     B  Gale  of 


which  the  years  give  to  colors;  it  had  all 
the  breadth  and  style  of  Titian's  best 
work;  even  Stuyvesant's  unpractised  eye 
could  detect  and  recognize  the  ear-marks 
which  had  been  discussed  and  insisted 
upon  by  the  experts  in  the  various  jour 
nals  while  the  authenticity  of  the  Mary 
Magdalen  had  been  still  a  matter  of  de 
bate. 

Stuyvesant  dropped  the  hangings  and 
came  back  into  the  main  part  of  the 
studio.  He  sank  into  a  chair  and  asked 
himself  what  he  had  best  do.  To  what 
purpose  would  he  see  Vaughn  now  ?  To 
reproach  him?  to  concert  measures  of 
safety  with  him  ?  He  did  not  know.  He 
took  up  the  note  he  had  written,  and  was 
about  to  tear  it  up;  but  on  second  thought 
he  laid  it  down  again.  It  would  be  bet 
ter  to  see  the  boy,  better  to  hear  what 
he  had  to  say  for  himself,  better  to  help 
him  out  of  this  scrape  if  help  were  to  be 
had  under  heaven.  Charley  was  Kitty's 
brother,  and,  for  Kitty's  sake,  Paul  would 
stick  to  him  still.  For  her  sake,  he 
would  go  even  to  the  length  of  compound 
ing  a  felony. 


a  Gale  of  £wentB*ftoe  f>ours.     137 


Zalinski  must  be  seen  and  settled  with 
somehow:  on  that  point,  at  least,  Char 
ley  could  advise  him.  Then  the  picture 
must  be  returned  to  the  owner  if  possible. 
Then  arrangements  must  be  made  for 
sending  the  young  fellow  away  at  once  — 
to  Europe  —  somewhere,  anywhere  —  where 
Kitty  should  never  see  him  again. 

As  for  himself,  he  never  faltered  in  his 
devotion.  He  thought  —  and  afterward 
he  smiled  to  himself  at  the  quizzicality 
of  the  conceit  at  such  a  moment  —  he 
thought  that  if  Kitty  had  ten  brothers, 
each  of  whom  had  severally  and  collec 
tively  broken  the  ten  commandments,  it 
could  make  no  difference  to  him.  She 
was  all  his  world,  all  his  hope,  all  his 
future;  and  his  fidelity  to  her  never 
wavered. 

Then  he  rose  and  turned  down  the  gas. 

It  is  strange  how  a  methodical  man 
will  continue  to  observe  his  ordinary 
habits  even  when  the  hopes  and  ambitions 
of  'his  life  are  crashing  in  ruins  around 
him.  He  drew  on  his  gloves,  and  took 
up  his  hat  and  passed  out  into  the  hall. 

The  door,  which  fastened  with  a  spring- 


138     B  £ale  of  CwentB=fiY>e  t>our0. 


lock,  clicked  behind  him.  He  felt  as  he 
remembered  to  have  felt  the  day  he  re 
turned  from  his  mother's  funeral.  The 
association  of  ideas  was  not  inapt;  for  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  now,  as  he 
had  been  then,  turning  his  back  on  the 
place  where  the  dearest  friendship  of  his 
life  lay  buried. 


CHAPTER    X. 

MR.     PAUL     STUYVESANT     IS     I.ATK     FOR     AN 
APPOINTMENT. 

•  S  Paul  Stuyvesant  left  "  The 
Rubens,"  a  single  stroke 
from  a  neighboring  steeple 
told  him  that  he  would  surely 
be  late  in  keeping  his  appointment  with 
Katharine  Vaughn.  It  was  at  half-past 
four  that  she  had  asked  him  to  call  for 
her  to  take  her  to  the  New  York  Hospital. 
]>y  rapid  walking  he  would  not  keep  her 
waiting  more  than  five  or  ten  minutes. 
He  knew  that  her  imperious  character 
would  not  brook  his  apparent  neglect  to 
obey  her  behest. 

There  was  a  chill  in  the  air,  and  a  bit 
ter  wind  swept  across  the  city  from  river 
to  river.  Stuyvesant  quickened  his  pace. 
"At  last  he  stood  before  Mrs.  Vaughn's 
door;  and  then,  for  all  he  had  hurried, 
he  hesitated.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
face  Kitty  or  what  to  say  to  her. 


140     B  Gale  of  G\vent£=fi\>c  Ibours. 

While  he  paused  in  embarrassment  and 
doubt,  with  his  hand  extended  to  pull 
the  bell,  the  door  opened,  and  Kitty  stood 
before  him. 

"So  there  you  are!  "  she  cried.  "At 
last!" 

"Am  I  late?"  he  asked,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  say,  and  glad  almost  to  be 
scolded  if  the  reproof  would  keep  his 
thoughts  from  turning  again  to  the  dread 
ful  discovery  he  had  made. 

"  Late  ?  "  she  returned.  "  Well,  I  should 
smile — if  I  wasn't  too  angry  with  you 
ever  to  smile  on  you  again." 

"I  hope  not,"  he  replied  mechani 
cally. 

"  You  were  so  late  that  I  had  given  you 
up,  and  I  was  going  without  you,"  said 
Kitty,  as  she  closed  the  door  of  her  house 
and  started  down  the  steps. 

Ordinarily  there  was  nothing  thatStuy- 
vesant  would  have  enjoyed  more  than  this 
brisk  walk  through  the  gathering  dusk  of 
a  winter  day  with  the  woman  he  loved. 
Even  her  scolding  was  as  music  in  his 
ears  generally;  and  to  him  it  mattered 
little  what  she  said,  so  long  as  he  might 


a  Gale  of  {Twenty-five  t)ours.     ui 

listen  to  her  voice.  But  now  the  music 
was  all  discord,  and  he  had  no  heart  for 
the  airy  talk  about  trifles  which  was  wont 
to  give  him  the  greatest  delight. 

He  tried  to  hide  his  perturbation  from 
her;  but  she  soon  saw  that  he  was  not  as 
bright  or  as  lively  as  usual. 

"  How  came  you  to  forget  your  appoint 
ment  with  me?"  she  asked. 

"  I  did  not  forget  it;   I  was  detained." 

"  That's  no  excuse  at  all.  You  should 
not  let  anybody  detain  you,"  Kitty  re 
turned.  "Now,  who  was  she?" 

"Who  was  who?"  asked  Stuyvesant  in 
surprise. 

"  Who  was  the  pretty  girl  who  detained 
you  ? "  she  protested. 

"  But  it  wasn't  a  pretty  girl  who 
detained  me,"  Paul  explained.  "It 
was 

He  checked  himself.  He  could  not 
tell  her  how  or  why  or  where  he  had  been 
detained. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

Then  he  saw  an  opening  for  a  diver 
sion  of  her  attack. 

"  I   was  detained  by  some   unexpected 


142     a  Cale  of  Gtoent6*fft>e  Ibours. 

business;  but  I  did  meet  a  pretty  girl 
to-day — 

"Oh!"  said  Kitty. 

Sometimes  a  monosyllabic  interjection 
may  be  fraught  with  a  volume  of  mean 
ing. 

"And  I  wish  you  could  tell  me  who 
she  is,"  continued  Stuyvesant  innocently. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  talk  to 
pretty  girls  without  knowing  who  they 
are?"  asked  she  sharply. 

"She  spoke  to  me,"  Paul  began  to  ex 
plain. 

"Then  I  am  to  understand  that  you  let 
pretty  girls  whom  you  don't  know  speak 
to  you  ?  " 

And  there  was  a  certain  acerbity  in  the 
tone  of  Miss  Vaughn's  voice  as  she  said 
this. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story, "Stuy 
vesant  answered,  glad  enough  to  find  a 
topic  about  which  he  could  talk  without 
danger. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  best,  "she  replied 
icily. 

"  I  was  riding  up  in  a  Broadway  car 
this  afternoon,  when  a  very  pretty  girl 


B  Gale  of  CwentE*fix>e  1)our0.     143 


got  on,  and  of  course  I  gave  her  my  seat," 
began  Paul. 

"  Would  you  have  given  it  to  her  if  she 
had  been  an  ugly  old  washerwoman  with 
a  basket?"  interrupted  Kitty. 

"I  hope  I  should  have  done  so,  "  an 
swered  Stuyvesant. 

"I  have  my  doubts  about  it,"  Kitty 
returned.  "  But  go  on.  Your  story  in 
terests  me  strangely,  as  they  say  in  plays. 
You  gave  her  your  seat  —  and  what  hap 
pened  then  ?  " 

"She  thanked  me,  calling  me  by 
name." 

"  So  then  she  knew  you  ?  "  asked  Kitty. 

"  So  it  seems,"  he  answered. 

"  And  you  don't  know  her?  " 

"No,"  he  replied;  "at  least,  I  have  no 
recollection  of  having  seen  her  before. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  met  her  somewhere 
at  dinner  or  at  a  reception,  but  I  cannot 
recall  it." 

"Oh!"  said  Kitty  again  ;  and  Stuyve- 
sa'nt  was  again  conscious  of  a  fall  in  the 
temperature. 

"  What  puzzled  me  most,  "  he  continued, 
"  was  that  she  seemed  to  know  that  we 


144     a  Gale  of  £wentE=five  t>ours. 


were  engaged.  In  fact,  she  sent  her  love 
to  you." 

"  How  was  she  dressed  ?  "  asked  Kitty. 

"I  don't  know  --  "  began  Stuyvesant. 

"Of  course  not.  You  are  a  man,"  she 
returned,  with  a  commiserating  glance. 
"What  was  she  like?" 

"  She  was  a  pretty  girl  — 

But  Kitty  interrupted  imperiously: 

"You  have  already  said  that.  What  I 
want  to  know  is,  what  sort  of  a  pretty 
girl  was  she.  Tell  me  all  you  happen 
to  have  noticed  ?  I  want  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 

Thus  admonished,  Stuyvesant  described 
the  lady  as  best  he  could,  and  he  went 
over  his  conversation  with  her  as  far  as 
he  recalled  it. 

"A  red-headed  girl,  who  lives  half  an 
hour  out  of  town.  Of  course  it  was 
Gladys  Tennant,  "  cried  Kitty,  when  he 
had  told  his  tale. 

"  Gladys  Tennant  ?  "  he  repeated 
vaguely. 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "don't  you  re 
member?  She  lives  in  Yonkers.  I  asked 
you  to  invite  her  to  that  theatre-party; 


Gale  of  GAveitt2*five  t>ours.     145 


and  at  supper  she  and  Charley  got  up  a 
grand  flirtation." 

"I  think  I  do  recall  her  now,"  said 
Stuyvesant.  "  And  so  she  and  Charley 
flirted  —  yes,  I  remember  that  too.  Let 
us  hope  she  is  not  interested  in  him,"  he 
added  involuntarily. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Kitty  sharply. 

Paul  saw  his  blunder,  but  it  was  too 
late. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  feebly. 

"Don't  you  think  the  girl  will  be  lucky 
who  gets  Charley?"  she  continued. 

Stuyvesant  could  not  forget  the  facts 
he  had  just  found  out.  He  could  not 
thrust  out  of  his  mind  the  strange  secret 
he  had  discovered  in  her  brother's  studio. 
And  before  he  could  make  ready  an  an 
swer,  she  went  on  : 

"  Don't  you  think  Charley  is  good 
enough  for  any  girl  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Stuyvesant  hastily, 
knowing  how  dear  brother  and  sister 
were  to  each  other  —  "oh,  yes!  I  have 
always  said  that  Charley  was  a  good 
fellow." 

"That's  what    you    say  about    him,  is 


14G     a  Gale  of  £vvents=ff\>e  t>ours. 

it  ?  "  asked  Charley's  sister.  "  And  that's 
how  you  say  it?" 

"I  shall  always  stand  up  for  him," 
went  on  the  unlucky  Paul.  "  I  hope  he 
will  always  find  a  friend  in  me." 

Kitty  withdrew  her  hand  from  Stuy- 
vesant's  arm. 

"  I  see  that  you  have  some  grievance 
against  Charley,"  she  said  coldly.  "  But 
I  think  it  would  be  more  manly  of  you  to 
go  to  him  and  have  it  out  than  to  make 
insinuations  to  me!  " 

"  Kitty!  "  cried  Paul,  astonished  at  this 
outbreak. 

"  I  have  known  Charley  longer  than  I 
have  known  you,"  she  continued,  "and  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  he  returned; 
"but " 

He  checked  himself  again.  What 
could  he  say?  There  was  nothing  to  do 
but  to  bear  her  reproaches  in  silence. 
He  could  not  justify  himself.  He  could 
not  tell  her  what  he  knew  about  her 
brother;  he  could  not  tell  her  that  for 
her  sake  he  stood  ready  to  do  anything 
in  his  power  for  Charley,  if  he  might 


H  Cale  of  C\ventE=fiv>e  Ibours.     n? 

yet  save  the  unfortunate  and  misguided 
boy. 

And  so  it  was  that  they  walked  on  in 
silence,  side  by  side,  down  Fifth  Ave 
nue  to  Fifteenth  Street. 

They  turned  the  corner,  and  in  less 
than  a  minute  they  stood  before  the  broad 
portal  of  the  New  York  Hospital. 

"  Here  is  where  I  am  going,"  said  Miss 
Vaughn  icily.  "I  will  not  trouble  you 
any  further,  Mr.  Stuyvesant." 

Paul  started  as  she  addressed  him  thus 
formally,  and  he  gave  her  a  reproachful 
glance. 

"  It  is  never  a  trouble  to  do  anything 
for  you,"  he  returned.  "It  is  always  a 
pleasure  to  be  with  you." 

Miss  Vaughn  had  left  him  without 
shaking  hands,  and  she  mounted  the  few 
steps  before  the  door.  Then  she  turned: 
perhaps  she  had  caught  his  reproachful 
glance;  perhaps  the  sorrowful  tones  in 
his  voice  touched  her;  at  any  rate,  she 
relented  a  little. 

Standing  on  the  steps  above  him,  she 
looked  down  and  said: 

"I   shall   be  here  until   a   quarter-past 


148     B  Cale  of  CwentB*ftve  1>ours. 

six.  You  may  come  back  for  me  then,  if 
you  like." 

Before  Stuyvesant  could  speak,  he  rec 
ollected  that  he  had  left  a  note  for  Char- 
l&y  saying  he  would  be  at  home  after  six, 
and  begging  an  immediate  interview,  the 
importance  of  which  forbade  any  post 
ponement. 

"I  wish  I  could  come;  but —  '  he 
began. 

The  chill  smile  swept  over  her  face 
again,  as  she  interrupted  him: 

"Don't  come,  if  you  don't  want  to." 

"But  I  do  want  to  come, "  he  urged, 
"  if  I  had  not  an  engagement — 

"You  need  not  make  any  excuse,"  she 
said  frigidly.  "Your  excuses  are  not  so 
successful  to-day  that  I  care  to  hear 
them." 

Stuyvesant  wished  that  he  could  tell 
her  that  his  engagement  was  with  her 
brother,  and  that  for  her  brother's  sake 
he  must  keep  it.  But  it  was  impossible. 

"Good-evening,"  she  said,  as  she 
passed  through  the  door,  and  the  chill  of 
those  last  words  smote  Stuyvesant  to  the 
heart.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  and 


B  £ale  of  CwcntE=fix>e  -fcours.     149 

she  had  parted  except  in  amity;  and  a 
parting  like  this  was  hard  to  bear. 

From  the  hospital  he  went  directly  to 
the  College  Club.  He  did  not  know 
when  Charley  would  get  his  note,  and 
when  he  might  expect  to  see  the  boy. 
He  must  be  prepared  to  wait,  if  need  be, 
without  leaving  his  apartment.  He  fore 
saw  that  he  should  have  to  forego  his  din 
ner  if  Charley  did  not  return  to  the  studio 
before  night.  Stuyvesant  walked  into 
the  club  and  ordered  a  dozen  raw  oysters, 
as  the  food  most  easy  to  get  and  most 
easy  for  him  to  eat  just  then,  when  he  felt 
as  though  a  mouthful  would  choke  him. 

As  he  sat  down  at  a  table  to  give  his 
order,  little  Mat  Hitchcock  came  in,  a 
man  whom  he  detested. 

"  Hallo,  Paul !  "  he  cried,  with  a  famil 
iarity  as  offensive  as  it  was  unwarranted, 
"what's  the  matter  with  you?  You  look 
off-color  to-night?  Has  your  best  girl 
gone  back  on  you  ? " 

Under  the  strain  on  Stuyvesant  just 
then,  this  was  more  than  he  could  stand. 

He  arose,  and,  facing  Hitchcock,  he 
said  calmly,  and  yet  with  force: 


i-">o     21  Cale  of  awent2=fiv>c  t>ours. 

"That  is  my  business,  Mr.  Hitchcock, 
and  I  suggest  that  you  mind  your  own." 

Little  Mat  Hitchcock  started  back. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  said 
hastily. 

"I  think  it  likely,"  returned  Paul 
coldly,  "that  you  cannot  help  being 
offensive  whether  you  mean  it  or  not." 

Hitchcock  withdrew  into  the  smoking- 
room,  where  he  spent  the  evening  telling 
everybody  who  chanced  to  come  in  how 
he  had  been  grossly  insulted  by  that  Stuy- 
vesant  man. 

When  Paul  had  hastily  swallowed  his 
oysters,  he  left  the  Club  and  walked  rap 
idly  back  to  his  apartment. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

MR.    PAUL  STUYVESANT    PASSES    A    DIS 
TURBED    NIGHT. 

[HE  quaint  little  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  was  chiming  six 
as  Stuyvesant  let  himself 
into  his  apartment  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  At  any  moment 
now  Charley  might  be  expected  to  make 
his  appearance  in  answer  to  the  note,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  Paul  to  do  but  to 
wait.  He  lighted  the  gas,  and  proceeded 
to  make  up  the  fire,  which  had  burned 
low. 

After  changing  his  costume  to  the  ease 
of  smoking- jacket  and  slippers,  he  filled 
his  pipe. 

In  truth,  his  nerves  had  need  of  a  seda 
tive.  Never  had  his  composure  received 
a  ruder  blow  than  it  had  that  day.  Now 
only,  in  the  quiet  of  his  own  room,  after 
he  had  in  a  measure  recovered  from  the 
first  shock  of  the  discovery,  could  he  real- 


152     B  Eale  ot  Gwents=fix>e 


ize  the  full  horror  of  the  situation.  On 
the  discovery  of  the  damning  evidence  of 
the  picture,  all  possibility  of  doubt  had 
fled,  and  with  it  all  hope.  He  groaned 
inwardly,  and  strove  to  turn  his  thoughts 
into  a  different  channel.  When  Charley 
came,  the  situation  must  be  faced  boldly. 
Explanations  must  be  given  and  received. 
Shifts  and  expedients  must  be  devised. 
It  was  a  sickening  prospect.  For  the 
moment  surely  he  was  entitled  to  indulge 
in  pleasanter  reveries,  if  he  could. 

The  little  clock  cut  the  silence  with  a 
sharp,  metallic  voice. 

Eight  o'clock.  Even  allowing  Char 
ley  to  have  lingered  over  his  dinner  at 
the  Fried  Cat  or  the  Hole-in-the-Wall, 
his  favorite  restaurants,  where  he  met 
many  fellow-artists,  long  enough  to  have 
smoked  a  cigar  afterward,  he  could  not 
be  much  later  now,  unless  he  had  gone 
from  his  dinner  straight  to  the  theatre  or 
some  place  of  amusement  without  stop 
ping  at  his  studio.  How  could  he  have 
the  heart  to  enjoy  himself  with  Nemesis 
on  his  track  ?  Stuyvesant  felt  a  hot  wave 
of  indignation  against  young  Vaughn 


B  Gale  of  Cwent£«fft>e  •foours.     153 

roll  across  his  mind.  What  right  had 
Charley  to  be  out  among  those  joyous 
holiday  throngs  while  he,  Paul,  was 
stretched  on  a  rack  of  vicarious  appre 
hensions?  Was  he  to  spend  his  evening, 
when  he  might  have  been  with  Kitty, 
when  he  should  have  been  with  Kitty, 
waiting  for  that  boy,  who  did  not  even 
think  it  worth  his  while  to  return  to 
his  studio  to  see  if  anything  had  hap 
pened  in  his  absence?  "One  would 
think,"  muttered  Paul  irefully,  "that 
he  would  feel  uneasy  to-day,  when  the 
loss  of  the  picture  has  just  been  discov 
ered.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  were  in 
his  place  I  should  not  dare  to  leave  that 
studio  for  a  moment,  knowing  what  it 
contains.  But  then  if  I  had  been  in  his 
place  the  Mary  Magdalen  would  be  in  Sam 
Sargent's  Paris  apartments,  where  it  be 
longs,  and  there  would  be  none  of  this 
trouble  at  all." 

Half-past  twelve,  within  a  minute  or 
two,  it  was,  when  he  glanced  again  at  his 
watch.  Was  Charley  never  coming  home  ? 

Was  he And  then  for  the  first  time 

an  appalling  thought  swept  across  Paul's 


154     a  tlale  of  Cvvcntgsftve  Ibours. 

consciousness  like  a  spectre,  and  he  shiv 
ered  to  his  very  marrow  under  the  clutch 
of  his  icy  doubt.  What  if  Charley  never 
came  home  again?  What  if  he  had 
looked  his  last  on  the  bright  face  that  he 
had  learned  to  love  so  much  ?  What  if 
Charley  were  dead  ? 

No  newspaper  reader,  no  dweller  and 
worker  in  the  busy  hive  of  the  metropolis, 
is  unfamiliar  with  the  idea  of  suicide. 
Like  many  another  horror,  it  is  a  thing 
to  be  lightly  discussed  and  lightly  dis 
missed,  till  we  are  brought  into  actual 
contact  with  it,  till  one  of  our  friends 
bursts  with  his  own  hands  the  lock  which 
guards  the  great  mystery.  Then,  indeed, 
we  realize  what  self-murder  is,  and  al 
ways  has  been — a  terrible  exception  im 
plying  a  burden  of  suffering,  borne  un 
suspected  until  human  nature  could  bear 
it  no  longer,  and  flung  aside  then  with 
one  rash  gesture.  And  so  it  is  that  we 
look  on  the  suicide  with  the  same  pitying 
wonder  that  we  read  of  the  tortures  of  the 
Inquisition,  and  marvel  that  poor  human 
ity  can  endure  so  much,  and  endure  it  so 
long. 


B  ftale  of  £wentE=fiv>e  t>ouits.     155 

Of  course  Paul  had  no  grounds  to  fear 
that  Charley  had  taken  the  fatal  step 
never  to  be  retraced:  he  had  misgivings 
only;  but  these  misgivings  grew  with 
every  moment  that  passed  after  the  first 
chilling  doubt  had  smitten  him.  Char 
ley  must  have  been  leading  a  fearful  life 
all  these  months,  subjected  to  the  exac 
tions  of  a  man  like  Zalinski,  with  the 
sword  of  this  undiscovered  secret  sus 
pended  over  his  head  by  a  hair  which  he 
could  not  but  know  must  snap  sooner  or 
later.  At  last  the  sword  had  fallen;  the 
secret  had  been  discovered;  and  what 
was  more  likely  than  that  the  poor  boy 
had  accepted  the  swiftest  and  easiest  so 
lution  of  his  difficulty,  and  had Paul 

shuddered.  He  knew  that  he  had  heard 
and  read  of  many  a  suicide  committed  on 
slighter  grounds  than  these. 

He  tore  off  his  smoking-jacket  and 
kicked  off  his  slippers.  He  would  go 
out;  he  would  solve  this  horrible  doubt 
if  he  could.  But  he  paused  even  before 
he  had  taken  his  boots  in  his  hands.  It 
was  long  past  one  now.  "  The  Ru 
bens  "  would  be  locked  up.  Without  a 


156    a  £ale  of  £wents=fiY>e  Ibours. 


key  to  the  outer  door,  he  could  not  get 
in;  and  he  knew  from  experience  that  his 
chance  of  rousing  any  of  the  inmates 
would  be  small.  Besides,  there  was  a 
chance,  a  dim  ghost  of  a  chance,  that 
Charley  might  yet  come;  and  Stuyvesant 
had  no  right  to  be  absent.  It  was  better 
to  wait  till  morning.  He  could  act  then; 
to-night  he  could  do  nothing  but  wait! 

Stuyvesant  had  lost  all  count  of  the 
hours.  The  thronging  thoughts  that 
filled  his  brain  annihilated  all  perception 
of  time  and  space.  He  was  like  a  man 
under  a  dose  of  hasheesh.  He  did  not 
sleep,  but  he  was  conscious  only  in  so  far 
as  he  felt  the  dominant  impression.  How 
the  long  hours  of  that  night  wore  away 
Paul  could  never  tell,  nor  could  he  ever 
recall  them  without  a  shudder. 

A  piercing  scream  came  up  from  the 
street.  Perhaps  a  fight  was  in  progress, 
or  perhaps  some  poor  creature  had  met 
with  an  accident.  The  cry  partly  roused 
Stuyvesant,  and  he  stirred  in  his  seat. 
Something  fell  to  the  ground.  He  had 
disturbed  the  manuscript  of  his  book  on 
Circumstantial  Evidence,  and  it  had 


a  Cale  ot  awentE=fiv>e  "toours.     157 

dropped  from  the  table.  The  closely 
written  leaves  lay  at  his  feet  in  wild  con 
fusion.  He  did  not  move,  but  slowly 
consciousness  came  back  to  him.  He 
was  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
was  gazing  intently  on  Miss  Vaughn's 
likeness.  He  had  drawn  the  little  cur 
tains,  but  he  had  no  recollection  of  the 
act,  nor  could  he  even  remember  taking 
that  chair.  Kitty  had  certainly  not  been 
in  his  thoughts,  and  yet  here  he  was — and 
here,  for  aught  he  knew,  he  had  been  for 
hours — staring  at  her  picture. 

The  eyes  of  the  faithful  portrait  were 
looking  into  his,  gently  and  pathetically. 
With  a  little  stretch  of  fancy  he  could 
have  imagined  that  they  were  filled  with 
tears.  His  own,  no  doubt,  were  dim  and 
weary.  Poor  Kitty!  If  it  were  indeed 
as  he  feared — if  Charley,  in  his  despair, 
had  taken  his  life — she  would  never  hold 
her  head  up  again.  But  why  pause  for 
an  "if"?  Living  or  dead,  there  could 
be"  no  doubt  that  Vaughn  had  stolen  the 
Titian,  and  in  that  act  alone  there  was 
measure  enough  of  shame  to  bow  his  sis 
ter's  head  in  the  dust  forever. 


i.r>8     B  Gale  of  awent£=fiv>e  tboure. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  ten 
minutes  before  six,  and  the  fire  had 
burned  out  to  dull  gray  ashes.  His  first 
feeling  of  consternation  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  utterly  hopeless  to  expect 
Charley  now  was  succeeded  by  a  sense  of 
relief  that  the  long  night  had  worn  itself 
away  at  last.  It  was  morning. 

More  and  more  figures  appeared  on  the 
street;  and  the  lowering  dawn  broadened 
into  a  murky  day.  New  York  was  awak 
ening.  Paul  turned  from  the  window 
and  proceeded  to  get  into  his  boots  and 
overcoat.  "The  Rubens"  might  be  open 
by  this  time.  Still,  he  did  not  like  to 
leave  his  room  where  he  had  waited  so 
long.  Suppose  even  now,  by  some  un 
foreseen  chance,  Charley  should  come  and 
find  him  absent?  He  would  stay  at  his 
post  to  the  end.  Then  his  eye  bright 
ened  a  little  as  he  hit  on  a  simple  expe 
dient. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

MR.     PAUL    STUYVESANT    SPEAKS    HIS   MIND. 

[TUYVESANT  stepped  out  into 

the  little  vestibule  of  his 
apartment  and  rang  the  Dis 
trict  Messenger  call  which 
was  fixed  at  one  side  of  the  door.  Then 
he  returned  to  his  room  and  sat  down  to 
his  desk.  He  wrote  a  very  urgent  letter 
to  Charley.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to 
write  it;  it  seemed  to  give  him  an  assur 
ance  that  his  friend  was  still  in  the  land 
of  the  living.  He  asked  if  his  note  of 
the  night  before  had  not  been  received, 
and  begged  Charley,  if  he  was  at  home, 
to  come  over  without  losing  an  instant. 
"It  is  of  the  greatest  importance,"  he 
wrote,  and  he  signed  himself  "  Ever  your 
friend,  Paul  Stuyvesant."  If  Charley 
were  there  to  read  it,  he  hoped  that  he 
would  understand  that  ever  as  conveying 
an  assurance  that  Paul  would  stand  by 
him  to  the  end. 


160     B  Gale  of  awentE=five  Tbours. 

In  due  course  the  messenger-boy  re 
turned.  Paul's  ashen  lips  could  hardly 
falter  out  the  monosyllable  "Well  ?"  for 
he  knew  that  the  doubts  and  fears  which 
had  possessed  him  during  fourteen  hours 
of  a  mental  strain  such  as  he  had  never 
before  undergone  were  to  be  resolved  now 
— for  better,  it  might  be ;  it  could  scarcely 
be  for  worse.  But  the  boy  seemed  un 
concerned  enough. 

"Gen'leman  was  in  bed,"  he  said,  and 
he  handed  Paul  a  note. 

"  In  bed  ? "  echoed  Stuyvesant,  as  he 
reeled  into  a  seat  with  the  unopened  let 
ter  in  his  hand.  "  In  bed  ?  "  he  repeated. 
"  When  did  he  get  home  ?  " 

"Dunno,"  answered  the  boy,  with  a 
grin ;  and  then  Paul  realized  that  the  best 
thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  read  the 
answer,  which  was  addressed  in  Charley's 
handwriting.  He  tore  open  the  envelope 
and  read  the  following,  written  in  pencil 
on  the  back  of  his  own  note: 

"DEAR  OLD  POST  SCRIPT:  Of  course 
I  found  your  note  last  night  when  I  got 
home;  but  as  it  was  after  midnight  then, 


a  Cale  of  Cwentg=fiv>e  t>ours.     101 

I  never  thought  you  would  expect  me  till 
the  morning  by  the  bright  light.  I'd 
have  run  around  right  off  if  I  had  sup 
posed  you  would  let  me  in.  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  getting  into  trouble  with 
the  police,  and  want  me  to  bail  you  out? 
You  can  count  on  me  every  time.  You 
can  even  count  on  me  this  time,  as  soon 
as  I  can  hustle  myself  into  a  few  gar 
ments.  I  trust  your  business  is  not  seri 
ous;  though  I  fear  it  is,  since  you  rouse 
me  out  of  my  beauty  sleep  so  recklessly. 
When  you  have  said  your  say,  I've  some 
thing  to  tell  you  about  myself  which  may 
interest  you.  I  think  it  will — and  I 
know  it  will  surprise  you. 

"  Yours  in  the  bath-tub, 

"  C.  V. " 

Paul  dismissed  the  messenger  with  a 
nod  and  stared  at  the  letter  in  his  hand 
as  if  it  were  a  cryptogram.  What  could 
it  mean?  It  was  couched  in  the  writer's 
habitual  tone  of  careless  raillery.  There 
was  nothing  mysterious  or  morbid  or 
melodramatic  about  it:  it  was  just  such 
a  note  as  the  boy  might  have  written  if 


162     B  Sale  of  Zwcntv*five  Ibours. 

there  were  no  Zalinski  in  the  world  and 
if  the  Mary  Magdalen  still  rested  in  its 
proper  frame.  Could  he  have  been 
dreaming?  Stuyvesant  asked  himself  if 
it  was  nothing  but  a  nightmare  springing 
from  the  hideous  watch  he  had  kept. 
He  found  no  solace  in  this  idea:  he  knew 
his  head  was  all  right,  even  if  his  nerves 
were  shaken;  and  he  turned  to  the  letter 
again  with  a  profound  bewilderment. 
"I've  something  to  tell  you  about  myself 
which  may  interest  you.  I  think  it  will — 
and  I  know  it  will  surprise  you."  This 
was  the  only  sentence  that  seemed  in  the 
least  out  of  the  common.  These  were 
the  only  words  that  even  hinted  at  a  mys 
tery.  But  that  Charley  would  refer  to  a 
matter  of  such  gravity  in  such  a  banter 
ing  strain  was  impossible. 

So  his  long  night's  vigil  had  been 
wasted.  Charley  had  returned  home  at 
midnight,  and  then  had  thought  it  was 
too  late  to  come  around.  Paul  grew 
angry  as  he  recollected  how  many  wake 
ful  hours  he  had  spent  since  twelve 
o'clock,  and  how  there  had  not  been  one 
of  them  in  which  Charley's  appearance 


a  £ale  of  Gvve:ttE=fiv>e  fjours.     163 

would  not  have  been  hailed  as  a  relief. 
But  Charley  had  been  in  bed  and  asleep 
all  the  time;  and  he  grumbled  now  be 
cause  he  had  been  disturbed  an  hour  too 
early  in  the  morning. 

Paul's  wrath  waxed  hotter  and  hotter, 
and  it  was  not  far  from  the  boiling-point 
when  the  door  opened  and  Charley  walked 
in. 

He  was  neat,  spruce,  and  well-dressed 
as  ever,  rosy  from  cold  water  and  the 
January  air.  About  him  there  were  no 
traces  of  a  sleepless  night  and  no  signs 
of  a  hurried  toilet.  Everything  was  in 
place,  even  to  a  little  hothouse  flower  in 
his  buttonhole,  which  might  have  been 
culled  that  moment,  so  fresh  and  fragrant 
did  it  look. 

He  came  in  jauntingly  with  his  drip 
ping  umbrella  in  his  hand  and  deposited 
it  carelessly  in  the  corner.  The  water 
ran  clown  and  collected  in  a  little  pool 
on  the  carpet. 

4'  Mornin-g,  morning,"  he  said.  "Hal 
loo!  what's  up?  You  look  as  if  you  had 
been  sitting  up  all  night  with  your  own 
corpse. " 


164     a  Cale  of  GwentE=ffve  f>our0. 

"I  have  not  been  to  bed,"  answered 
Paul.  He  could  not  go  on.  The  young 
fellow's  appearance  was  in  too  sharp  a 
contrast  to  the  fears  that  had  been  tortur 
ing  him. 

"Dissipating,  eh?"  continued  Charley 
lightly,  and  then,  noticing  the  other's 
continued  gravity:  "What  are  you  look 
ing  so  cross  about?  Oh,  I  see!  I've 
left  my  umbrella  dripping!  Well,  I  never 
can  remember."  He  took  it  up  and  stood 
it  in  the  rack.  "I  won't  be  guilty  again. 
Now,  tell  me  what's  the  row?" 

"  Charley,"  said  Paul,  with  an  effort, 
"I  have  something  very  serious  to  talk 
about;  but  you  mentioned  in  your  note 
that  you  had  something  to  tell  me.  Per 
haps  it  is  the  same  thing.  Go  on.  You 
may  tell  me  everything." 

Charley  stared  at  him  with  unfeigned 
amazement.  "I  don't  see  how  it  can  be 
the  same  thing,"  he  said.  "You  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  unless  you  are  a 
sharper  fellow  than  I  take  you  for." 

"Perhaps  I  am  sharper  than  you  take 
me  for,  and  clews  have  come  to  my  hand 


of  a\ventE=f!x>e  txmrs. 


which  you  never  could  have  dreamed  of. 
So  go  on;  let  me  hear  all  about  it." 

"  Let's  hear  what's  worrying  you  first, 
old  fellow,"  said  Charley,  with  real  con 
cern.  "  Something  has  happened;  I  can 
see  that:  you  look  as  white  as  a  ghost 
with  the  dyspepsia.  You  haven't  been 
sitting  up  all  night  and  sending  off  for 
me  at  cockcrow  for  nothing.  What's  the 
matter?  Anything  about  Kitty  ?" 

Paul  fired  up  at  once.  "  Don't  dare  to 
mention  her  name!"  he  said  hotly. 

"Come,  that's  cool,"  rejoined  Charley. 
"  Pray,  why  mayn't  I  mention  my  own 
sister's  name?  She  isn't  yours  yet,  and 
I  doubt  if  she  ever  would  be  if  she  heard 
you  talk  to  me  like  that." 

"  No  trifling,  "  retorted  Stuyvesant.  "  I 
know  all." 

Charley's  eyes  opened  wider,  and  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  seemed  twitching 
with  a  desire  to  laugh;  but  he  only  said: 

"  The  deuce  you  do  !  What  a  lot  you 
must  know,  then!" 

Paul  had  hard  work  to  keep  his  temper. 
To  him  this  cavalier  way  of  treating 


166     a  Gale  of  Gwentg=fh>e 


a  serious  matter  was  incomprehensible. 
Steadying  his  voice  with  an  effort,  he 
said: 

"  I  am  deeply  pained  to  see  you  ap 
proach  this  subject  in  so  flippant  a  spirit. 
I  was  in  your  studio  yesterday." 

"  Yes,  and  you  left  a  note  there.  I  got 
it.  What's  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"While  in  your  studio,  I  looked  round 
among  the  pictures;  I  searched  every 
where  — 

"Cool  of  you;  but,  considering  who 
you  are,  I'll  forgive  you  this  time,"  said 
Charley,  who  was  engaged  in  lighting  a 
cigarette. 

"  In  the  farthest  angle  under  the  gallery 
I  came  on  the  Mary  Magdalen." 

Charley's  lips  were  puckered  into  a 
whistle. 

"Now,  do  you  know,"  he  said  finally, 
"I'm  sorry  you  found  that,  old  man.  I 
hadn't  intended  you  to  see  it  —  at  least, 
not  yet.  I  meant  to  have  --  Well,  no 
matter;  it's  none  the  worse,  I  suppose." 

Paul's  astonishment  at  this  reception 
of  his  information  was  well-nigh  ludi 
crous.  He  almost  gasped  for  breath,  and 


of  CwentE=five  t>ours.     167 


he  stared  at  Charley  as  if  the  artist  were 
a  being  of  some  new  and  undescribed 
species. 

"  How  did  you  gain  access  to  Mr.  Sar 
gent's  apartments?"  he  at  last  found 
voice  to  ask. 

"With  a  silver  key.  I  never  met  an 
incorruptible  concierge  in  my  life,"  an 
swered  the  young  fellow,  with  a  light 
laugh. 

"  And  can  you  speak  of  it  in  that  tone? 
Do  you  not  realize  what  you  have  done? 
Do  you  make  no  account  of  your  mother 
and  sister  —  the  shame  and  misery  you 
may  bring  on  them  — 

"Come,  come,  Stuyvesant,"  said  Char 
ley  quickly;  "that's  pitching  it  rather 
too  strong." 

"I  can't  speak  half  as  strongly  as  I 
feel,"  answeerd  Paul  hotly.  "I  think  the 
whole  transaction  as  mean  and  despicable 
as  anything  I  ever  heard  of.  I— 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Stuyvesant,"  inter 
rupted  the  young  man,  rising  and  stand 
ing  before  him,  "  you  are  going  too  far. 
So  just  pull  up  short  where  you  are,  will 
you  ?" 


1G8     B  Gale  of  GvventE=five  Doura. 

"What  did  you  come  here  to  tell  me?" 
asked  Paul.  "  Be  candid  and  above-board 
now,  and  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you." 

"What  I  came  here  to  tell  you  is  pure 
ly  my  own  business,"  answered  Charley 
stiffly.  "I  should  have  been  very  glad 
to  tell  you  about  it,  but  I  don't  think  it 
would  possess  the  interest  for  you  now 
that  once  I  had  a  fancy  it  would.  At  any 
rate,  after  the  words  you  have  used  to  me, 
I  should  have  no  pleasure  in  telling  it." 

The  young  man  picked  up  his  umbrella 
and  turned  toward  the  door.  Paul  could 
not  suffer  him  to  leave  like  this,  with  no 
conception  of  the  magnitude  of  the  crime 
he  had  committed. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  he  said.  "You  don't 
seem  to  realize  that  this  is  a  very  serious 
matter.  Do  you  know  that  this  is  noth 
ing  more  nor  less  than  a  theft  you  have 
committed  ?" 

"  I  do  not  regard  it  in  that  light  at  all," 
answered  Charley,  with  his  hand  on  the 
lock  of  the  door;  "and,  since  you  enter 
tain  that  opinion  of  me,  the  less  we  see 
of  each  other  in  the  future  the  better. 
Good-morning." 


B  Gale  of  GwentE*five  f>ours.     169 


The  door  slammed  with  a  viciour  sound, 
and  Paul  was  alone. 

An  hour  later  Stuyvesant  stood  on  a 
street-corner  with  his  watch  in  his  hand, 
wondering  whether  he  could  yet  venture 
to  call  on  Miss  Vaughn. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.    PAUL    STUYVESANT    READS    THE 
"GOTHAM  GAZETTE." 

still  lacked  several  minutes 
of  half-past  ten — more  min 
utes  than  he  cared  to  count — 
when  Stuyvesant  stood  on 
the  steps  of  Mrs.  Vaughn's  house  and 
pulled  the  bell.  He  had  never  before 
called  on  Kitty  at  so  early  an  hour,  ex 
cept  by  previous  appointment,  when  it 
had  been  arranged  that  he  was  to  be  her  es 
cort  on  some  excursion  demanding  a  start 
betimes.  But  this  morning  he  felt  an  im 
perative  need  of  seeing  the  girl  he  loved. 
He  wanted  the  solace  of  her  presence,  the 
comfort  of  a  few  minutes'  conversation 
with  her,  after  his  long  night  of  agony 
and  his  very  peculiar  interview  with 
Charley  at  the  end  of  it.  He  felt  that 
he  could  not  talk  to  her  on  the  subject 
that  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  He 


&  Gale  of  Cwente«five  f>ours.     l?l 

was  determined  to  work  out  her  brother's 
salvation  alone,  if  that  were  possible; 
and  till  the  last  moment  he  would  keep 
from  the  sister  all  knowledge  of  the  terri 
ble  facts  he  had  discovered.  But  he 
wanted  to  see  Kitty  for  another  reason. 
They  had  parted  in  coolness  the  night  be 
fore;  and  this  was  in  itself  no  slight  ad 
dition  to  the  burden  he  was  called  upon 
to  bear.  He  could  not  believe  that  she 
was  angry  with  him  still;  at  any  rate,  a 
complete  humiliation  on  his  part,  and  un 
stinted  apology,  even  without  an  expla 
nation,  would  doubtless  serve  to  smooth 
the  matter  over. 

When  the  servant  opened  the  door,  he 
inquired  for  Miss  Vaughn.  Could  he 
see  her? 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course;  she  is  upstairs 
now  with  Mr.  Charles." 

This  was  an  unexpected  embarrass 
ment.  Paul  had  no  desire  to  meet  Char 
ley  again — at  least,  not  just  at  present. 
He  'hesitated  for  a  full  minute,  and  a 
very  little  would  have  tempted  him  to 
run  away.  However,  Stuyvesant's  was 
not  a  shrinking  nature,  and  he  entered 

12 


172     B  Gale  of  GwentE=fiv>e  fxwrs. 

the  house  and  sent  a  message  to  Miss 
Vaughn.  Would  she  see  him  alone  for  a 
few  minutes? 

/  He  was  shown  into  Kitty's  special 
room,  the  same  in  which  he  had  waited 
for  her  on  the  previous  day — the  same  in 
which  he  had  waited  for  her  more  times 
than  he  could  reckon,  though  every  time 
had  its  own  sweet  memories.  The  apart 
ment  was  full  of  remembrances  of  her; 
the  evidences  of  the  girl's  dilettante  art 
were  scattered  around  in  picturesque 
confusion. 

Stuyvesant  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  Charley's  early  visit  to  his  mother's 
house,  where  of  late  he  had  not  been  a 
frequent  visitor  at  the  best  of  times. 
Just  now  one  would  have  supposed  that 
he  had  enough  to  think  of  and  to  do,  un 
der  present  circumstances,  without  mak 
ing  morning  calls.  But  Charley's  con 
duct  in  this  crisis  had  been  systematically 
unaccountable.  It  was  impossible  to 
predict  what  he  would  do  or  say,  what  he 
would  leave  undone  or  unsaid. 

The  door  opened,  and  Miss  Vaughn 
entered.  She  looked  very  dainty  and 


B  Sale  of  awents=fiv>e  t>ours.     173 

winsome  in  a  fresh  morning-gown;  her 
eyes  were  dancing  with  happiness  and 
health;  and  she  had  a  bewitching  smile 
on  her  lips.  She  tried  to  frown  as  Paul 
arose,  but  the  smile  was  rebellious  and 
would  not  down,  so  she  gave  up  her  vain 
assumption  of  displeasure  and  broke  into 
a  merry  laugh. 

"Well,  Bear,"  she  said,  "have  you 
come  to  apologize  for  your  rudeness  last 
night  ?" 

This  was  just  the  reception  Paul  wished 
for.  He  was  willing  to  apologize. 
Metaphorically  speaking,  he  asked  noth 
ing  better  than  to  grovel  at  her  little  feet. 
All  he  was  unwilling  to  do  was  to  ex 
plain;  and  Kitty  did  not  ask  for  an  ex 
planation. 

He  managed  even  to  say,  with  a  fair 
attempt  at  a  light  manner: 

"  If  you  call  me  a  bear,  you  must  ex 
pect  to  be  hugged." 

"Hands  off!"  she  cried,  retreating  be 
hind  a  chair.  "I  haven't  forgiven  you 
yet  for  being  cross." 

"I  throw  myself  on  your  mercy, "  he 
said,  "and  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  J 


174     a  Gale  of  (Twentgsfive  f>ours. 

\vas  the  greatest  sufferer  by  not  being  on 
hand  to  walk  home  with  you  yesterday 
evening." 

"Of  course  you  were,"  she  answered. 
"  People  who  let  their  tempers  get  the 
best  of  them  are  always  the  greatest  suf 
ferers  in  the  long  run.  But,  now  you 
have  come  back  in  a  proper  frame  of 
mind,  you  shall  be  forgiven,  and  I'll  let 
you  take  the  kiss  of  peace." 

And  he  took  it  at  once.  It  seemed  to 
refresh  him. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  went  on,  "I  have 
just  heard  something  so  interesting  and 
so  exciting  that  it  has  driven  everything 
else  out  of  my  head,  and  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  bear  malice.  You  shall  guess 
what  it  is." 

Paul  could  not  guess.  He  had  not  the 
spirits  for  badinage,  and,  after  one  or  two 
futile  efforts  under  pressure  of  her  insist 
ence,  he  gave  it  up. 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  "be  prepared. 
Catch  hold  of  something.  Charley  has 
been  with  me  all  the  morning,  and  he  has 
made  a  full  confession." 

Kitty's  recommendation  to  catch   hold 


S  Cale  of  awcntg-five  -fcour0.     175 

of  something  had  not  been  unnecessary. 
Paul  fairly  reeled  under  her  announce 
ment.  Charley  had  told  her;  and  now, 
instead  of  Stuyvesant  finding  her  crushed 
and  spirit-broken  by  the  confession,  she 
met  him  with  a  laugh  on  her  lips,  and  re 
ferred  to  it  as  something  "  exciting  and 
interesting. " 

"  He  has  told  you  all  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"Yes;  everything.  Isn't  it  just  too 
lovely? " 

Paul  .stared. 

"It  accounts  for  all  that  has  been 
puzzling  us  in  his  ways  of  late." 

It  certainly  did  account  for  Charley's 
change  of  habits;  but  Stuyvesant  could 
not  share  Miss  Vaughn's  satisfaction. 

"You  don't  seem  pleased,"  she  said 
more  coldly.  "  Perhaps  you're  jealous. 
Oh,  I  haven't  forgotten  how  you  raved 
about  Gladys  Tennant's  beauty  yester 
day,  when  you  met  her  in  the  street-car, 
though  you  pretended  you  didn't  know 
her." 

At  any  other  time  Paul  would  have 
asked  no  better  pastime  than  to  combat 
this  pretty,  unreasonable  pique;  but  now 


176     B  Sale  of  Cwent£=fiv>e  Ibours. 

all  his  faculties  were  absorbed  in  a 
boundless  bewilderment.  What  Miss 
Tennant  had  to  do  with  the  matter  he 
tried  vainly  to  guess. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  look  very  innocent 
and  unconscious,"  pursued  Kitty.  "But 
there,  I  am  too  happy;  I  can't  be  angry 
with  you,  even  when  you  deserve  it. 
Why,  you  dear  old  stupid,  when  you  met 
Gladys  she  was  on  her  way  to  take  the 
3:30  train  home  to  Yonkers.  She  had 
very  good  reason  to  suppose  Charley 
might  happen  to  be  on  the  same  train; 
and  sure  enough  he  was  on  it ;  and  the 
whole  thing  was  settled  as  they  walked 
from  the  station  to  her  house;  and  he 
dined  and  spent  the  evening  at  Mr.  Ten- 
nant's  in  the  character  of — in  what  char 
acter,  do  you  suppose?" 

Paul  could  not  hazard  an  opinion. 

"How  perversely  stupid  you  are  this 
morning!  "  she  said,  with  a  frown  of  im 
patience.  "  Haven't  I  told  you  as  plainly 
as  words  could  say  it  that  Charley  pro 
posed  to  Gladys  Tennant  yesterday,  and 
was  accepted,  and What's  the  mat 
ter  now? " 


&  Gale  of  C\vent£=five  Ibours.     ITT 

"Is  that  all  Charley  told  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  that  is  all;  and  a  very  sufficient 
piece  of  news  it  is,  too,  for  a  rainy  morn 
ing,  I  should  think,"  she  retorted. 

Paul  breathed  again.  The  fatal  secret 
was  still  unsuspected  by  Kitty. 

"  You  are  not  very  profuse  in  your  con 
gratulations,"  she  went  on,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause.  Then  she  looked  at  him 
more  closely.  "  What's  the  matter, 
Paul?  You  look  tired  and  troubled;  you 
are  not  yourself  this  morning.  Aren't 
you  well,  dear? " 

There  was  a  note  of  infinite  tenderness 
and  feeling  in  her  voice,  and  Paul  caught 
the  hand  that  she  passed  caressingly  over 
his  brow  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me," 
he  said.  "  I  had  a  rather  disturbed  night, 
that's  all.  Some — something's  happened 
to  worry  me.  Tell  me,  though:  this  en 
gagement — it's  rather  sudden,  isn't  it? 
I 'didn't  know  that  Charley  was  paying 
attention  in  that  quarter." 

"Neither  did  I.  None  of  us  did,"  an 
swered  she.  "  He  has  been  most  preter- 


173     a  Gale  of  G\vents=fiv>e  ibours. 

naturally  sly  about  it,  hasn't  he?  You 
see,  it  seems  he  has  been  in  love  quite  a 
while.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  she 
took  him  into  camp  on  the  boat;  you 
know  they  came  back  from  Europe  on  the 
same  steamer  last  fall,  and  he  has  been 
sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  love  ever 
since,  until  now  he  is  over  head  and  ears. 
But  he  had  an  idea  that  Gladys  was  fond 
of  some  other  fellow,  and  it  has  made 
him  very  miserable.  He  never  hoped 
that  anything  would  come  of  it,  so  he 
never  told  a  soul  a  word  about  it.  Fi 
nally,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  some 
thing  had  to  be  done  in  a  hurry;  so  he 
took  the  plunge  yesterday,  and  he  found 
out  that  Gladys  has  been  sighing  for  him 
as  long  as  he  has  been  dying  for  her,  and 
now  everything  is  lovely." 

"I  see,"  said  Paul  slowly. 

He  understood  now  the  nature -of  the 
communication  which  Charley  had  in 
tended  to  make  to  him  that  morning. 
He  saw  they  had  been  at  cross-purposes. 
He  thought  that  the  young  artist  had 
chosen  a  very  inopportune  moment  for 
his  wooinsr.  The  selfishness  which  Char- 


of  GAV>ent£=ffve  ibours.     no 


ley  displayed  in  drawing  a  young  girl's 
bright  life  into  the  shadow  of  his  own 
struck  Paul  painfully.  It  was  of  a  piece 
with  the  incomprehensible  indifference 
and  levity  with  which  he  had  treated  the 
whole  transaction. 

"Well,  you  are  not  very  enthusiastic," 
said  Kitty,  after  a  pause. 

"Of  course  I  wish  him  all  possible 
happiness,"  said  Paul  with  an  effort,  for 
the  words  seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat. 

"You  shall  say  it  to  his  face,  then," 
said  Miss  Vaughn,  running  to  the  door. 

She  was  in  the  hall  in  an  instant,  and 
calling  with  her  clear,  high-pitched 
voice: 

"Charley,  Charley!  Come  here  a  min 
ute  ;  I  want  you.  " 

"  Kitty,  I  beg  of  you  —  Paul  cried, 

springing  to  his  feet. 

But  the  summons  had  already  gone 
forth.  It  was  impossible  to  check  this 
young  lady  in  any  course  she  had  re 
solved  on  ;  and  Paul  had  no  possible  ex 
cuse  for  his  unwillingness  to  meet  her 
brother.  It  was  evident  that  Charley  had 
told  her  nothing  of  their  quarrel  in  the 


180     a  Calc  of  awentgsfire  Ibours. 


morning.      Stuyvesant  could  only  remain 
passive,  and  let  things  take  their  course. 

Presently  Charley  entered,  light-hearted 
and  lively  as  ever,  without  the  trace  of  a 
care  on  his  face.  Paul,  in  his  embarrass 
ment,  had  withdrawn  into  the  recess  of 
the  window. 

"Well,  Kit,  what  is  it?"  said  the 
young  fellow  as  he  came  in. 

"Oh,  I've  just  called  you  down  to  re 
ceive  Paul's  congratulations.  I've  told 
him  all  about  it  --  "U  Thy,  where  is 
he?" 

"Thanks,  I'll  take  Stuyvesant's  felici 
tations  for  granted,"  said  Charley  coolly. 
"You  see,  they  probably  would  not  be 
exuberantly  overflowing.  He's  been  en 
gaged  long  enough  himself  to  have  found 
out  that  it  isn't  a  subject  for  unmixed 
congratulations!  " 

Kitty's  quick  eye  detected  something 
strained  in  the  situation. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  two?" 
she  said.  "  Have  you  been  quarrelling?  " 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  said  Charley. 
"  Stuyvesant  has  just  found  out  about  the 
Mary  Magdalen  ;  and  the  manner  in  which 


B  Gale  of  C\vents=fiv>e  t>ours.     181 

I  secured  it  seems  to  have  jarred  with  his 
fine  sense  of  honor." 

Paul  nearly  fainted.  So  her  brother 
had  told  Kitty  the  whole  business,  after 
all.  There  was  nothing  more  to  conceal. 
He  came  forward  from  the  window,  just 
as  Kitty  answered: 

"Well,  you  know,  Charley,  I  did  not 
think  it  exactly  nice  myself." 

Was  the  whole  Vaughn  family  desti 
tute  of  the  moral  sense?  The  girl  he 
was  engaged  to  referred  to  a  felony  as 
not  "  exactly  nice!  " 

"That's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  said 
Charley  calmly. 

Paul  disagreed  with  him,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"  If  a  man  chooses  to  hide  away  a  mas 
terpiece  like  that,  the  outside  world 
must  get  at  it  as  they  can,"  the  artist 
said. 

Paul  still  remained  silent. 

"Well,  there's  something  in  that, "said 
Kitty,  appealing  to  him. 

"Perhaps  there  is,"  said  Stuyvesant 
stiffly.  "  I  can't  see  it  myself.  To  take 
away  Mr.  Sargent's  picture  without  his 


182     B  dale  of  awentE*fiv>e  tours. 

knowledge  is,  in  my  eyes,  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  a  theft." 

"Since  Mr.  Sargent  has  been  lucky 
enough  to  recover  his  Titian,"  said  Char 
ley,  "I  think  he  will  be  charitable  enough 
to  find  a  milder  word  for  my  very  petty 
larceny." 

"Recovered  his  Titian?"  cried  Paul 
in  amazement.  "  How  can  that  be?" 

"By  the  exertions  of  the  very  intelli 
gent  and  efficient  police  of  the  good  city 
of  Paris,"  answered  Charley. 

"  Haven't  you  read  the  papers  yet  ?  "  he 
continued.  "You  were  up  early  enough 
this  morning." 

"No:  I  have — I  have  been  thinking  of 
something  else,"  said  Paul,  producing 
the  Gotham  Gazette  from  his  pocket, 
still  folded  as  he  had  taken  it  from  his 
table. 

Charley  took  the  paper  from  him  and 
opened  it. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  indicating  a 
paragraph  in  the  cable  news. 

With  growing  amazement,  Paul  read 
this  despatch: 


Sale  of  awent£=fiv>e  Tbours.      183 


A  PICTURE    RESTORED- 
"TO  ITS  OWNER! 


MR.  SAM     SARGENT     RECOVERS     HIS    MARY 
MAGDALEN. 

"  PARIS,  January  3.  —  The  Parisian 
police  have  done  a  bit  of  detective  work 
worthy  of  the  real  Vidocq  or  the  fabled 
Lecoq.  They  have  caught  the  man  who 
cut  Mr.  Sargent's  Titian  from  its  frame 
yesterday,  and  they  have  got  back  the 
picture  itself.  As  I  telegraphed  you  last 
night,  they  had  a  clew;  and  so  adroitly 
did  they  follow  it  up,  that  they  laid  hands 
on  the  thief  within  twelve  hours  after 
the  robbery  had  been  discovered.  The 
theft  was  committed  by  a  single  man,  an 
employee  of  the  low  curiosity-shop  where 
the  picture  was  discovered  two  years  ago. 
He  bribed  the  concierge  of  Mr.  Sargent's 
apartments  yesterday  morning,  and  the 
painting  was  cut  from  its  frame  only  an 
hour  or  two  before  the  owner  returned. 
The  rascal  has  made  a  full  confession,  in 
which  he  acknowledges  that  his  motive 
was  to  hold  the  Mary  Magdalen  to  ran 
som,  and  to  strike  the  American  owner 


184     B  Gale  of  awentB=fiv>e  fjours. 

for  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  Luckily, 
a  sharp-eyed  detective  remarked  the  un 
easiness  of  the  concierge  when  Mr.  Sar 
gent  announced  his  loss.  Under  pres 
sure,  the  concierge  supplied  a  description 
of  the  thief,  and  the  police  ran  him  down 
at  once.  Mr.  Sargent  has  sent  ten  thou 
sand  francs  to  the  Hotel-Dieu  to  endow  a 
special  bed  for  the  detective  department 
of  the  police." 

"  So,  you  see,  Mr.  Sam  Sargent  is  in  far 
too  good  a  humor  this  morning  to  be  very 
angry  with  me,"  said  Charley,  when  he 
had  finished. 

"The  Mary  Magdalen  recovered?  In 
Paris?"  Paul  was  stupefied  with  amaze 
ment.  "Then  what  was  it  I  saw  in  your 
room  yesterday  ? " 

Charley  stared  at  him  blankly.  Grad 
ually  a  light  seemed  to  dawn  on  his  mind, 
and  the  hard  lines  of  his  face  thawed  out. 
Finally,  the  whole  situation  burst  upon 
him  at  once,  and  he  fell  back  on  the  sofa, 
where  he  rolled  helplessly  in  uncontrol 
lable  merriment. 

"  Why,    you    don't    mean    to    say    you 


B  Gale  of  Cwentg=fix>e  l)ours.     185 

thought  that  was  the  original?"  he 
gasped,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  his 
breath. 

"I  certainly  did,"  said  Paul  gravely. 

The  humor  of  the  affair  had  not  yet 
dawned  upon  him. 

"  Oh,  this  will  be  the  death  of  me !  "  said 
Charley,  in  the  intervals  of  his  merriment. 
"  Here  is  an  unlooked-for  testimonial  to 
the  merits  of  my  medium!  I  shall  pub 
lish  it,  Paul — I  certainly  shall;  and  then 
I'll  take  a  big  studio  and  turn  out  old 
masters  by  the  gross." 

He  was  obliged  to  stop,  choking  with 
laughter. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Kitty. 

"Why,  it's  this  way,"  continued 
Charley,  who  had  temporarily  regained 
command  of  his  voice.  "  As  I  told  you, 
I  bribed  the  concierge  and  made  a  copy 
of  Sargent's  Mary  Magdalen.  Sargent 
is  a  good  friend  of  mine,  but  I  couldn't 
get  at  him  to  ask  his  permission;  so  I 
just  did  without  it.  I  knew  that  there 
wasn't  a  government  in  Europe  that 
wouldn't  let  me  go  through  its  galleries 
and  copy  what  I  liked.  I  primed  my  own 


186     B  Gale  of  awentg=fiv>e  "toours. 

canvas,  as  I  always  do,  and  I  used  my 
famous  medium;  and  really  it  made  a 
very  respectable  old  master  indeed.  It 
would  pass  muster  anywhere — wouldn't 
it,  Paul  ?  " 

There  was  a  fresh  explosion  of  laughter, 
and  then  the  young  fellow  resumed: 

"  I  kept  it  as  shady  as  I  could,  for  I 
intended  it  as  a  wedding-present  for  you 
two;  but  Master  Paul,  here,  must  go 
hunting  after  a  mare's  nest,  and  find  one 
with  an  addled  egg  in  it.  When  he  got 
pitching  into  me  about  the  theft,  and  so 
forth,  I  supposed  he  was  referring  to  the 
underhand  way  in  which  I  secured  my 
copy,  and  for  which  my  conscience  has 
pricked  me  a  little  more  than  once,  I  con 
fess;  but  I've  written  the  whole  story  to 
Sargent,  and  I'm  sure  he'll  say  it's  all 
right.  But  Paul  actually  thought  I  had 
gone  in  with  a  crape  mask  and  an  ink- 
eraser,  and  cut  the  picture  out  of  the 
frame!  Oh,  I  shall  die  of  this,  I  know 
I  shall!" 

"And  did  you  think  my  brother  capa 
ble "  began  Kitty  indignantly. 

"Oh,   don't,   Kit!     Don't  scold   him," 


a  Gate  of  Cwentg=fiv>e  fjours.     187 

said  Charley.     "The  poor  fellow  has  had 
the  worst  of  it  all  through." 

Stuyvesant  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  in  silence. 

"Tell  me,  Paul,"  Charley  continued, 
"  how  did  you  ever  get  on  the  track  of  the 
Mary  Magdalen  at  all?  Did  you  find  it 
by  accident?" 

"No,"  said  Paul.  His  mind  was  still 
whirling  with  the  astonishing  develop 
ments  of  the  morning,  and  he  could  not 
force  his  ideas  out  of  the  beaten  track. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I  learned  that  you  had 
been  paying  money  at  different  times  to 
a  man  named  Zalinski,  who  turned  out 
to  be " 

"A  pawnbroker,"  interrupted  Charley. 
"One  by  one  my  cherished  secrets  shrivel 
up  under  the  eagle  eye  of  my  future 
brother-in-law.  I  have  dealt  with  Zalin 
ski;  I  buy  most  of  my  curios  and  studio 
properties  from  him.  I  got  that  guillo 
tine-knife  that  hangs  in  your  sitting-room 
from  Zalinski,  and  the  bowie-knife  too. 
I  have  even  left  him  a  standing  order  to 
let  me  know  whenever  he  comes  across 
anything  that  may  appeal  to  my  outland- 
13 


188     a  Gale  of  Cwents=fit>e  flxwrs. 

ish  taste;  but  I  don't  tell  people  of  it. 
For  one  thing,  it  looks  shady  to  deal  at  a 
pawnshop;  and  for  another,  if  the  rest  of 
the  boys  tumbled  to  my  racket,  Zalinski's 
prices  would  go  up,  and  there  wouldn't 
be  so  much  left  for  me. " 

"Charley,"  said  Paul,  advancing  with 
outstretched  hand,  "  I  have  made  a  great 
fool  of  myself,  and  my  doubt  of  you  was 
an  outrage.  Can  you  forgive  me?" 

"With  all  my  heart,  old  boy,  espe 
cially  as  you've  given  me  the  best  laugh 
I've  had  for  years." 

"And  you,  Kitty?"  said  he,  turning  to 
Miss  Vaughn. 

"I  don't  know.  I'll  consider  it. 
You've  no  business  to  be  so  suspicious," 
she  anwered,  putting  her  hands  behind 
her. 

"I'll  try  and  be  less  so  in  the  future," 
he  answered  humbly. 

"And  you'd  better  look  out  and  walk 
the  matrimonial  chalk-line  without  wob 
bling,  Miss  Kitty,"  said  her  brother; 
"for  you'll  have  a  husband  that  could 
give  Vidocq  long  odds  and  beat  him." 

"I    think,   on    the   whole,   as    you    are 


B  Cale  of  Cwentg=fiv>e  t>ouis.     189 

penitent,  I'll  forgive  you,"  said  Kitty 
gravely,  wholly  ignoring  her  brother's 
irreverent  observation.  "Now  I'm  going 
to  Yonkers  with  Charley  to  kiss  Gladys 
Tennant.  You  can  come  if  you  want." 

"You  can  come,  but  you  can't  kiss," 
interjected  Charley. 

"I'd  like  it  of  all  things,"  said  Paul 
eagerly. 

"You'll  see  how  nice  she  is  to  talk  to 
when  you  know  who  she  is,"  said  young 
Vaughn  mischievously;  "and  when  you 
get  back  you  can  sit  down  and  write  a 
nice  long  chapter  on  the  fallacies  of  cir 
cumstantial  evidence,  as  exemplified  in 
the  personal  experience  of  the  author." 


THE    END. 


D.  APPLETON   &   CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

APPLETONS'  SUMMER  SERIES,  1891. 
*J~OURM 'ALINES  TIME  CHEQUES.     By  F.  ANSTEY, 
•*         author  of  "  Vice  Versa,"  "  The  Giant's  Robe,"  etc. 

"  Its  author  has  struck  another  rich  vein  of  whimsicality  and  humor.'" 
— San  Francisco  A  rgonaut. 

"  His  special  gift  is  in  making  the  impossible  appear  probable." — St. 
Louis  Republic. 

"A  curious  conceit  and  very  entertaining  story." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"  Each  cheque  is  good  for  several  laughs." — New  York  Herald. 

"  Certainly  one  of  the  most  diverting  books  of  the  season." — Brooklyn 
Times 

"  Sets  a  handsome  example  for  the  '  Summer  Series,'  with  its  neat  and 
portable  style  of  half  cloth  binding  and  good  paper  and  typography." — 
Brooklyn  Eagle. 

T^ROM  SHADOW    TO    SUNLIGHT.     By  the  MAR- 

•*•  QUIS  OF  LORNE. 

"  In  these  days  of  princely  criticism — that  is  to  say,  criticism  of  princes 
— it  is  refreshing  to  meet  a  really  good  bit  of  aristocratic  literary  work,  al 
beit  the  author  is  only  a  prince -in-law.  .  .  .  The  theme  chosen  by  the 
Marquis  makes  his  story  attractive  to  Americans." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  A  charming  book." — Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

ADOPTING  AN  ABANDONED  FARM.  By  KATE 
•*•*  SANBORN. 

"It  may  be  mythical,  but  it  reads  like  a  true  narrative  taken  from  a 
strong  memory  that  has  been  re-enforced  by  a  diary  and  corrected  by  the 
parish  register.  It  is  not  only  as  natural  as  life,  but,  as  Josh  Billings  used 
to  say,  'even  more  so.'  " — New  York  Journal oj  Commerce. 

"  A  sunny,  pungent,  humorous  sketch.  ...  A  bright,  amusing  book, 
which  is  thoughtful  as  well  as  amusing,  and  may  stimulate,  somewhere, 
thinking  that  shall  bear  fruit  in  some  really  effective  remedial  action." — 
Chicago  Times. 

/^V    THE    LAKE    OF  LUCERNE,   AND    OTHER 
^      STORIES.     By  BEATRICE  WHITBY. 

"Six  short  stories  carefully  and  conscientiously  finished,  and  told  with 
the  graceful  ease  of  the  practiced  raconteur." — Literary  Digest. 

"The  stories  are  pleasantly  told  in  light  and  delicate  vein,  and  are  sure 
to  be  acceptable  to  the  friends  Miss  Whitby  has  already  made  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  Very  dainty,  not  only  in  mechanical  workmanship  but  in  matter  and 
manner." — Boston  Advertiser. 


Each,  i6mo,  half  cloth,  with  specially  designed  cover,  50  cents. 
New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON   &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

RECENT  ISSUES  IN  APPLETONS*  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 
STEPHEN  ELLICOTT'S  DAUGHTER.     By  Mrs. 
^     J.    H.    NEEDKLL,   author   of    "The   Story   of  Philip 
Methuen."     I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  I  am  desirous  to  bear  my  humble  testimony  to  the  great  ability  and 
high  aim  of  the  work." — Hon.  W.  E.  GLADSTONE. 

"From  first  to  last  an  exceptionally  strong  and  beautiful  story."— 
London  Spectator. 

r\NE  REASON    WHY.      By  BEATRICE  WHITBY,  au- 

^^     thor  of  "  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwick,"  "  Part  of 

the  Property,"  etc.    I2mo.    Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"A  remarkably  well-written  story.  .  .  .  The  author  makes  her  people 
speak  the  language  of  every-day  life,  and  a  vigorous  and  attractive  realism 
pervades  the  book,  which  provides  excellent  entertainment  from  beginning 
to  end." — Boston  Saturday  Lvening  Gazette. 


T 


•HE  TRAGEDY  OF  IDA  NOBLE.  By  W.  CLARK 
RUSSELL,  author  of  "  The  Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor," 
etc.  I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"The  best  sea-story  since  '  The  Wreck  of  the  Grosvenor.'  It  shows  a 
determination  to  abandon  the  well-worn  tracks  of  fiction  and  to  evolve  a 
new  and  striking  p'ot.  .  .  .  There  is  no  sign  of  exhausted  imagination  in 
this  strong  tale."— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

'T'HE     JOHNSTOWN     STAGE     AND     OTHER 

•*•       STORIES.    By  ROBERT  H.  FLETCHER,  author  of  "  A 

Blind  Bargain,"  etc.    I2mo.    Paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  collection  of  as  charming  short  stories  as  one  could  wish  to  find, 
most  of  them  Western  in  scene." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"  Nine  real  stories,  not  studies  of  character,  but  narratives  of  interest. 
.   .  vivaciously  and  pleasantly  told." — Boston  Pitot. 


A 


WIDOWER  INDEED.  By  RHODA  BROUGHFON 
and  ELIZABETH  BISLAND.  121110.  Paper,  50  cents ; 
cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Done  with  masterly  skill.  The  whole  work  is  strong  and  well  worth 
reading." — New  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 

"  The  story  is  written  with  great  strength,  and  possesses  a  powerful  in 
terest  that  never  flags." — Boston  Home  Journal. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON   &    CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

RECENT  ISSUES  IN  APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 
'THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  SHADOW.      By  GEORGE 
•*•         MACDONALD,  author  of  "  Malcolm,"   "  Annals  of  a 

Quiet  Neighborhood,"  etc.     I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ; 

cloth,  $1.00. 

"  It  is  extremely  entertaining,  contains  a  charming  love-story,  and  is 
beautifully  written,  like  everything  from  Mr.  MacJJonald'spen." — Sc.  J  aul 
Pioneer-Press. 

T  OVE  OR  MONE  Y.     By  KATHARINE  LEE,  author  of 
•^       "  A  Western  Wildflower,"  "  In  London  Town,"  etc. 
I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"In  point  of  cleverness  this  novel  is  quite  up  to  the  standard  of  the  ex 
cellent  Town  and  Country  Library  in  which  it  appears.  Most  of  the  char 
acters  are  well  drawn,  and  there  are  some  singularly  strong  scenes  in  the 
book." — Charleston  Mews  and  Courier. 

ATOT  ALL  IN  VAIN.  By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE,  author 
of  "  The  Three  Miss  Kings,"  "  My  Guardian,"  etc. 
I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  worthy  companion  to  the  best  of  the  author's  former  efforts,  and  in 
some  respects  superior  to  any  of  them." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  A  better  story  has  not  been  published  in  many  moons." — Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

TT  HAPPENED  YESTERDA  Y.  By  FREDERICK 
MARSHALL,  author  of  "Claire  Brandon."  I2mo. 
Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  An  odd,  fantastic  tale,  whose  controlling  agency  is  an  occult  power 
which  the  world  thus  far  has  doubted  and  wondered  at  alternately  ratl.er 
than  studied." — Chicago  Times. 

"A  psychological  story  of  very  powerful  interest."— Boston  Home 
Journal. 

1\/TY  GUARDIAN.  By  ADA  CAMBRIDGE,  author  of 
"The  Three  Miss  Kings,"  "Not  All  in  Vain,"  etc. 
I2mo.  Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  story  which  will,  from  first  to  last,  enlist  the  sympathies  of  the 
reader  by  its  simplicity  of  style  and  fresh,  genuine  feeling.  .  .  .  The  author 
is  an  fait  at  the  delineation  of  character." — Boston  T>anscript. 

"The  Mnouinent  is  all  that  the  most  ardent  romance-reader  could 
desire.  — Chicago  Evening  Journal. 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


T 


D.  APPLETON   &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


'HE  FAITH  DOCTOR.  By  EDWARD  EGGLESTON, 
author  of  "  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  "  The  Circuit 
Rider,"  etc.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"An  excellent  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  With  each  new  novel  the  author  of 
'  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster '  enlarges  his  audience,  and  surprises  old  friends 
by  reserve  forces  unsuspected.  Sterling  integrity  of  character  and  hi^h 
moral  motives  illuminate  Dr.  Eggleston's  fiction,  and  assure  its  place  in  the 
literature  of  America  which  is  to  stand  as  a  worthy  reflex  of  the  best  thoughts 
of  this  age." — New  \'ork  World. 

"One  of  the  novels  of  the  decade." — Rochester  Union  and  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  extremely  fortunate  that  the  fine  suhjcct  indicated  in  the  title 
should  have  fallen  into  such  competent  hands." — Pittsburgh  Chronicle- 
'1  elegraph. 

"  Much  skill  is  shown  by  the  author  in  making  these  '  fads'  the  basis  of 
a  novel  of  great  interest.  .  .  .  One  who  tries  to  keep  in  the  current  ol  good 
novel-reading  must  certainly  find  time  to  read  'The  Faith  Doctor.'" — 
Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  A  vivid  and  life-like  transcript  from  several  phases  of  society.  Devoid 
of  literary  affectation  and  pretense,  it  is  a  wholesome  American  novel  well 
worthy  of  the  popularity  which  it  has  won." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"The  author  of  'The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster'  has  enhanced  his  reputa 
tion  by  this  beautiful  and  touching  study  of  the  character  of  a  girl  to  love 
whom  proved  a  liberal  education  to  both  of  her  admirers." — London  Athe- 
ntetim. 

AN  UTTER  FAILURE.  By  MIRIAM  COLES  HARRIS, 
•*•*  author  of  "  Rutledge."  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  story  with  an  elaborate  plot,  worked  out  with  great  cleverness  and 
with  the  skill  of  an  experienced  artist  in  fiction.  The  interest  is  strong  and 
at  times  very  dramatic.  .  .  .  Those  who  were  attracted  by  '  Rutledge  '  will 
give  hearty  welcome  to  this  story,  and  find  it  fully  as  enjoyable  as  that  once 
immensely  popular  novel." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  pathos  of  this  tale  is  profound,  the  movement  highly  dramatic,  the 
moral  elevating." — New  York  World. 

"  In  this  new  story  the  author  has  done  some  of  the  best  work  that  she 
has  ever  given  to  the  public,  and  it  will  easily  class  among  the  most  meri 
torious  and  most  original  novels  of  the  year." — Bostcn  Hotne  Journal. 

"  The  author  of  '  Rutledge '  does  not  often  send  out  a  new  volume,  but 
when  she  does  it  is  always  a  literary  event.  .  .  .  Her  previous  books  were 
sketchy  and  slight  when  compared  with  the  finished  and  trained  power 
evidenced  in  'An  Utter  Failure.'  " — New  Haven  Palladium. 

"F.xhibits  the  same  literary  excellence  that  made  the  success  of  the 
author's  first  book." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"  American  girls  with  a  craving  for  titled  husbands  will  find  instructive 
reading  in  this  story." — Boston  Traveller. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D,  APPLETON   &   CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 


INLINE    VERB.      By   Louis   COUPF.RUS.       Translated 
-^      from  the  Dutch  by  J.  T.  GREIN.      With  an  Introduc 
tion  by  EDMUND  GOSSE.      Holland   Fiction   Series. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  established  authorities  in  art  and  literature  retain  their  exclusive 
place  in  dictionaries  and  hand-books  long  after  tlie  claim  of  their  juniors  to 
be  observed  with  attention  has  been  practically  conceded  at  home.  For  this 
reason,  partly,  and  partly  also  because  the  mental  life  of  Holland  receives 
little  attention  in  this  country,  no  account  has  yet  been  taken  of  the  revolu 
tion  in  Dutch  taste  which  has  occupied  the  last  six  or  seven  years.  I  believe 
that  the  present  occasion  is  the  first  on  which  it  has  been  brought  to  the 
notice  of  any  English-speaking  public.  .  .  .  '  Eline  Vere '  is  an  admirable 
performance." — EDMUND  GOSSE,  in  Introduction. 

"  Most  careful  in  its  details  of  description,  most  picturesque  in  its  color 
ing." — Boston  Post. 

"  A  vivacious  and  skillful  performance,  giving  an  evidently  faithfu' 
picture  of  society,  and  evincing  the  art  of  a  true  story-teller." — Philadelphia 
Telegraph. 

"  Those  who  associate  Dutch  characters  and  Dutch  thought  with  ideas 
of  the  purely  phlegmatic,  will  read  with  astonishment  and  pleasure  the  oft- 
times  stirring  and  passionate  sentences  of  this  novel." — Public  Opinion. 

"The  de'iLoiinient  is  tragical,  thrilling,  and  picturesque." — New  York 
World. 

"  If  modern  Dutch  literature  has  other  books  as  eood  as  this  to  offer,  we 
hope  that  they  will  soon  find  a  translator." — Chicago  Evening  Journal. 


A 


PURITAN  PAGAN.     By  JULIEN  GORDON,  author 
of  "A  Diplomat's  Diary,"  etc.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  Cruger  grows  stronger  as  she  writes.  .  .  .  The 
lines  in  her  story  are  boldly  and  vigorously  etched." — New  York  Times. 

"The  author's  recent  books  have  made  for  her  a  secure  place  in  current 
literature,  where  she  can  stand  fast.  .  .  .  Her  latest  production,  '  A  Puritan 
Pagan,'  is  an  eminently  clever  story,  in  the  best  sense  ot  the  word  clever." 
—Philadelphia.  Telegraph. 

"  Has  already  made  its  mark  as  a  popular  story,  and  will  have  an  abun 
dance  of  readers.  ...  It  contains  some  useful  lessons  that  will  repay  the 
thoughtful  study  of  persons  of  both  sexes." — New  York  Journal  of  Com 
merce. 

"This  brilliant  novel  will  without  doubt  add  to  the  repute  of  the  writer 
who  chooses  to  be  known  as  Julien  Gordon.  .  .  .  The  ethical  purpose  of 
the  author  is  kept  fully  in  evidence  through  a  series  of  intensely  interesting 
situations." — Boston  Beacon. 

"It  is  obvious  that  the  author  is  thoroughly  at  home  in  illustrating  the 
manner  and  the  sentiment  of  the  best  society  of  both  America  and  Europe. " 
— Chicago  Times. 

New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


o 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


N  THE  PLANTATION,  By  JOEL  CHANDLER 
HARRIS,  author  of  "  Uncle  Remus."  \Vith  23  Illus 
trations  by  E.  W.  KEMBLE,  and  Portrait  of  the  Author. 
I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  book  is  in  the  characteristic  vein  which  has  mnde  the  author  so 
famous  and  popular  as  an  interpreter  of  plantation  character." — Rochtstir 
Union  and  Advertiser. 

"Those  who  never  tire  of  Uncle  Remus  and  his  stories— with  whom  we 
would  be  accounted — will  delight  in  Joe  Maxwell  and  his  exploits." — 
London  Saturday  Review. 

"Altogether  a  most  charming  book." — Chicago  Times. 

"  Really  a  valuable,  if  modest,  contribution  to  the  history  of  the  civil 
war  within  the  Confederate  lines,  particularly  on  the  eve  of  the  catastrophe. 
Two  or  three  new  animal  fables  are  introduced  with  effect;  but  the  history 
of  the  plantation,  the  printing-office,  the  black  runaways,  and  white  de 
serters,  of  whom  the  impending  break-up  made  the  community  tolerant,  the 
coon  and  fox  hunting,  forms  the  serious  purpose  of  the  book,  and  holds  the 
reader's  interest  from  beginning  to  end." — New  York  Evening  Post. 


u 


\VCLE  REMUS:  His  Songs  and  his  Sayings.  The 
Folk-lore  of  the  Old  Plantation.  By  JOEL  CHANDLER 
HARRIS.  Illustrated  from  Drawings  by  F.  S.  CHURCH 
and  J.  H.  MOSER,  of  Georgia.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  idea  of  preserving  and  publishing  these  legends,  in  the  form  in 
which  the  old  plantation  negroes  actually  tell  them,  is  altogether  one  of  the 
happiest  literary  conceptions  of  the  day.  And  very  admirably  is  the  work 
done.  ...  In  such  touches  lies  the  charm  of  this  fascinating  little  volume 
of  legends,  which  deserves  to  be  placed  on  a  level  with  Kciiicke  Fuchs  for 
its  quaint  humor,  without  reference  to  the  ethnologic*!  interest  possessed 
by  these  stories,  as  indicating,  perhaps,  a  common  origin  for  very  widely 
severed  races." — London  Spectator. 

"  We  are  just  discovering  what  admirable  literary  material  there  is  at 
home,  what  a  great  mine  there  is  to  explore,  and  how  quaint  and  peculiar 
is  the  material  which  can  be  dug  up.  Mr.  Harris's  book  may  be  looked  on 
in  a  double  light — either  as  a  pleasant  volume  recounting  the  stories  told  by 
a  typical  old  colored  man  to  a  child,  or  as  a  valuable  contribution  to  our 
somewhat  meager  folk-lore.  .  .  .  To  Northern  readers  the  story  of  Brer 
(Brother — Brudder)  Rabbit  may  be  novel.  To  those  familiar  with  planta 
tion  life,  who  have  listened  to  these  quaint  old  stories,  who  have  still  tender 
reminiscences  of  some  good  old  mauma  who  told  these  wondrous  adventures 
to  them  when  they  were  children,  Brer  Rabbit,  the  Tar  Baby,  and  Brer  Fox 
dime  back  again  with  all  the  past  pleasures  of  younger  days." — New  York 
Times. 

"  Uncle  Remus's  sayings  on  current  happenings  are  very  shrewd  and 
bright,  and  the  plantation  and  revival  songs  are  choice  specimens  of  their 
sort. " — Boston  Journal. 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON   &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


'THE   LAST   WORDS    OF    THOMAS    CARLYLE. 
•*•        Including  IVotton  Reinfred,  Carlyle's   only   essay   in 

fiction  ;  the  Excursion  (Futile  Enough)  'to  Paris  ;  and 

letters  from  Thomas  Carlyle,  also  letters  from  Mrs. 

Carlyle,  to  a  personal  friend.     With  Portrait.     I2mo. 

Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.75. 

"The  interest  of  '  Wotton  Reinfred  '  to  me  is  considerable,  from  the 
sketches  which  it  contains  of  particular  men  and  women,  most  of  whom  I 
knew  and  could,  if  necessary,  identify.  The  story,  too,  is  taken  generally 
from  real  life,  and  perhaps  Carlyle  did  not  finish  it,  from  the  sense  that  it 
could  not  be  published  while  the  persons  and  things  could  be  recognized. 
That  objection  to  the  publication  no  longer  exists.  Everybody  is  dead 
whose  likenesses  have  been  drawn,  and  the  incidents  stated  have  long  been 
forgotten."  —  JAMES  ANTHONY  FKOIJUE. 

"'Wotton  Reinfred'  is  interesting  as  a  historical  document.  It  gives 
Carlyle  before  he  had  adopted  his  peculiar  manner,  and  yet  there  are  some 
characteristic  bits—  especially  at  the  beginning  —  in  the  Sartor  Kesartus 
vein.  I  take  it  that  these  are  reminiscences  of  Irving  and  of  the  Thackeray 
circle,  and  there  is  a  curious  portrait  of  Coleridge,  not  very  thinly  veiled. 
There  is  enough  autobiography,  too,  of  interest  in  its  way."  —  LESLIE 
STEPHEN. 

"No  complete  edition  of  the  Sage  of  Chelsea  will  be  able  to  ignore  these 
manuscripts."  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


MINES,  AXD  AATIMALS  IN  SOUTH 
AFRICA.  By  Lord  RANDOLPH  S.  CHURCHILL. 
With  Portrait,  Sixty  five  Illustrations,  and  a  Map. 
8VO-  337  pages.  Cloth,  $5.00. 

"The  subject-matter  of  the  book  is  of  unsurpassed  interest  to  all  who 
either  travel  in  new  countries,  to  see  for  themselves  the  new  civilizations, 
or  follow  closely  the  experiences  of  such  travelers.  And  Lord  Randolph's 
eccentricities  are  by  no  means  such  as  to  make  his  own  reports  of  what  he 
saw  in  the  new  states  of  South  Africa  any  the  less  interesting  than  his  active 
eyes  and  his  vigorous  pen  naturally  make  them."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"Lord  Randolph  Churchill's  pages  are  full  of  diversified  adventures  and 
experience,  from  any  part  of  which  interesting  extracts  could  be  collected. 
...  A  thoroughly  attractive  book."  —  London  Telegraph. 

"Provided  with  amusing  illustrations,  which  always  fall  short  of  cari 
cature,  but  perpetually  suggest  mirthful  entertainment."  —  Philadelphia 
Ledger. 

"-The  book  is  the  better  for  having  been  written  somewhat  in  the  line  of 
journalism.  It  is  a  volume  of  travel  containing  the  results  of  a  journalist's 
trained  observation  and  intelligent  reflection  upon  political  affairs.  Such 
a  work  is  a  great  improvement  upon  the  ordinary  bo<  k  of  travel.  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  experiences  in  the  African  bush, 
and  has  produced  a  record  of  his  journey  and  exploration  which  has  hardly 
a  dull  pa^e  in  it."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


New  York  :   D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


T 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

T  IFE    IN   ANCIENT  EGYPT   AND    ASSYRIA. 

~^       By  G.  MASPERO,  late  Director  of  Archaeology  in  Egypt, 

and  Member  of  the  Institute  of  France.     Translated 

by  ALICE  MORTON.     With  188  Illustrations.     I2mo. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  A  lucid  sketch,  at  once  popular  and  learned,  of  daily  life  in  Egypt  in 
the  time  of  Rameses  II,  and  of  Assyria  in  that  of  Assurbanipal.  .  .  .  As  an 
Orientalist,  M.  MaspeVo  stands  in  the  front  rank,  and  his  learning  is  so  well 
digested  and  so  admirably  subdued  to  the  service  of  popular  exposition,  that 
it  nowhere  overwhelms  and  always  interests  the  reader." — London  Times. 

"  Only  a  writer  who  had  distinguished  himself  as  a  student  of  Egyptian 
and  Assyrian  antiquities  could  have  produced  this  work,  which  has  none  of 
the  features  of  a  modern  book  of  travels  in  the  East,  but  is  an  attempt  to 
deal  with  ancient  life  as  if  one  had  been  a  contemporary  with  the  people 
whose  civilization  and  social  usages  are  very  largely  restored." — Boston 
Herald. 

"  The  ancient  artists  are  copied  with  the  utmost  fidelity,  and  verify  the 
narrative  so  attractively  presented."  —  Cincinnati  7iines-^iar. 

'HE  THREE  PROPHETS:  Chinese  Cordon;  Mo- 
hammcd-Ahmed  ;  Araby  Pasha.  Events  before,  dur 
ing,  and  after  the  Bombardment  of  Alexandria.  By 
Colonel  CHAILLE-LONG,  ex-Chief  of  Staff  to  Gordon 
in  Africa,  ex-United  States  Consular  Agent  in  Alex 
andria,  etc.  With  Portraits.  i6mo.  Paper,  50  cents. 

"  Comprises  the  observations  of  a  man  who,  by  reason  of  his  own  military 
experience  in  Egypt,  ought  to  know  whereof  he  speaks." — Washington 
Post. 

"  Throws  an  entirely  new  light  upon  the  troubles  which  have  so  long 
agitated  Egypt,  and  upon  their  real  significance." — Chicago  Times. 

n^IIE  MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ARABIAN  PRINCESS. 

•*•         By  EMILY  RUETE,  n&  Princess  of  Oman  and  Zanzibar. 

Translated  from  the  German.      I2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

"A  remarkably  interesting  little  volume.  .  .  .  As  a  picture  of  Oriental 
court  life,  and  manners  and  customs  in  the  Orient,  by  one  who  is  to  the 
manner  born,  the  book  is  prolific  in  entertainment  and  edification." — Boston 
Gazette. 

"The  interest  of  the  book  centers  chiefly  in  its  minute  description  of  the 
daily  life  of  the  household  from  the  time  of  rising  until  the  time  of  retiring, 
giving  the  most  complete  details  of  dress,  meals,  ceremonies,  feasts,  wed 
dings,  funerals,  education,  slave  service,  amusements,  in  fact  everything 
connected  with  the  daily  and  yearly  routine  of  life."—  Utica  (N.  V.)  Herald. 

New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


